


Desiderata

by The_Arkadian



Series: De Lupus Intus [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 38,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Warnings for mention of torture & non-con.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**Prologue**

Anders hummed quietly to himself as he ground the small seeds, crushing them with the pestle and mortar. He inhaled the spicy sweet scent as they yielded up their aromatic oils and nodded in satisfaction; the vendor in the market had spoken the truth when he claimed they were fresh. So much of what filtered down to the market in Lowtown was old, dusty and had lost most of its efficacy by the time it exchanged hands for a few meagre coppers carefully scrimped and saved. But Anders had gotten lucky; a new herbalist appeared recently from Ferelden, and his stock was fresh and still good. Doubtless the quality of his wares would taper off over time, but Anders had taken advantage to restock whilst he could.

He carefully tipped the crushed seeds into the potion steeping in the jar by the fire then stirred them in before cautiously inhaling the steam. He nodded with satisfaction, then set the pestle and mortar to one side before cupping his hands around the warm earthenware jar. Closing his eyes, he willed energy into the brewing potion, augmenting it subtly. This healing draught when finished would be much more effective than those produced from the usual paltry supplies he was usually able to afford. A little would go further and last longer. And just as well, really; Hawke's various escapades of late had decimated his supply rather badly. The rogue had a definite knack of diving headlong into trouble – rather painful trouble recently. 

He stepped back; the potion needed to steep a while longer, but the main work was done. Nodding in satisfaction, he picked up the pestle and mortar and the other implements he had been using, gathering them up in a bucket then heading towards the small yard that led off the back of his clinic. Pouring in water from a rain barrel, he heated the water with a gesture then set to work washing up.

“A quiet day, Blondie?” remarked a voice from the doorway behind him; Anders started. Lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't noticed the dwarf enter the clinic, but his smile as he glanced over his shoulder was welcoming.

“Varric! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, nothing major,” replied the dwarf, moving over towards a wooden crate and sitting himself down as he tugged off his leather gloves. “I was in the area and thought I'd drop by. I've brought your share from that last trip we made.” he pulled out a small pouch of coin and tossed it to the blond apostate, who caught it left-handed then tucked it into a pocket in his robes. “You look positively domestic, Blondie.”

“Just catching up on stuff,” replied Anders, jerking his chin at the water. “That last trip pretty much cleaned out the last of my supply of potions. I hope Hawke doesn't have any plans to drag us off anywhere violent in the next couple of days, because that's how long it's going to take me to brew more.”

“I think we've all earned a couple of days off, Blondie,” replied Varric with a grin. “In fact, that was the other reason I'm here; a few of us are getting together for drinks at the Hanged Man tonight. I thought you might like to come along.”

A wistful look crossed Anders' face. “I'd like to, Varric, but....”

“No buts, Blondie. You're coming tonight if I have to come drag you there myself,” replied the dwarf as he stood up, waggling a finger sternly at the man. “Do I make myself clear?”

Anders blinked. Varric grunted as if that were assent and nodded. “That's settled then. See you at sunset.”

Anders blinked again then smiled as the dwarf left the clinic. An evening in good company without anyone trying to kill him sounded good....

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Anders rolled his eyes then dropped his cards face-down on the table; he wasn't going to be winning anything tonight. Across the table, Isabela studied her hand, her face almost mask-like and inscrutable. Try as he might, Anders could not even guess at the strength of her hand. She could hold a hand of aces or all duds for all he knew. Isabela's game face gave nothing away, unlike Hawke's. 

The rogue's face was carefully schooled into a neutral expression, but a slight crinkle of the skin near the outer corner of his left eye betrayed some emotion as his dark blue gaze slightly intensified. The dark-haired man evidently felt he was onto a winner.

On Isabela's other side, sat to Anders' right, Varric leaned back in his seat with a faint smile which gave nothing more away than the Rivaini pirate's blank mask did. Anders had no idea who held the winning hand at the table; his only certainty was that it wasn't him.

“Show your hands, gentlemen,” purred Isabela as she spread four aces on the table. Varric rolled his eyes and threw down his worthless hand as Hawke started, staring from the cards to Isabela disbelievingly.

“How the hell do you do that?” he exclaimed as Varric slid the pile of coin over to join the stacks by Isabela's elbow. She laughed, her voice low and husky as she reached for her tankard of ale and downed half of it with one pull.

“She's playing you as much as the cards, Hawke,” observed Varric with a wry grin. Isabela smiled and inclined her head slightly towards the dwarf.

“I've never lost as much coin to anyone as I have to Isabela,” remarked Anders, reaching for his own tankard.

“Except Fenris,” she replied with a grin. “Speaking of which, where _is_ our favourite broody elf?”

Anders blinked as three pairs of eyes turned towards him.

“What?” he blurted out. “Why do you all assume _I_ know where he is? Fenris is his own person. He comes and goes as he pleases; I don't keep tabs on him!” 

Isabela merely smirked, Hawke raised an eyebrow, and Varric tapped a finger on the worn wooden surface of the table, a speculative look in his eye. Growing increasingly uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Anders flung his hands up in exasperation.

“I haven't seen Fenris in about a week since we got back from the smugglers' caves. He went off to his mansion, I went back to my clinic. I've been pretty busy with patients, and I doubt Fenris wants to hang around watching whilst I patch up broken arms, festering wounds and deliver babies. I've been too occupied with the clinic to leave until Varric came by earlier to drag me out for the evening.” They continued to watch him with an air of expectation. “We don't live in each others' pockets, you know! We do have separate lives!”

Hawke glanced around the others. “So, no-one has seen Fenris in several days then?” He seemed to be continuing a conversation they had been having before Anders' arrival. The mage glanced around the table.

“Wait, you mean no-one has seen him? Not just me?” Isabela shot him a curious look as a note of alarm crept into his voice.

“I saw him about four days ago when he dropped by for his share of the proceeds from the last trip,” said Varric. “I'd assumed he was hanging out in Darktown with you, Blondie.”

“Now why would our favourite glowing elf be hanging out with Anders?” Isabela interjected. “Have I missed something?” She leaned forward, her eyes lighting up with interest.

“He just can't resist my dashing good looks and dazzling wit,” shot back Anders, darting a glare at her. He glanced back to the dwarf. “And you didn't think to mention this when you dropped by to visit?” he added incredulously. Varric shrugged and spread his hands. 

“It slipped my mind briefly, Blondie. You didn't seem worried by anything so I figured all was okay on that score.”

Anders dropped his gaze to his hands where they gripped the tankard tightly. With an effort he loosened his fingers and drew a slow breath. “Fenris is capable of taking care of himself,” he said quietly. “More than capable.”

“Let me get this straight – you? And Fenris?” drawled Isabela, then chuckled as a dark flush rose from Anders' collar up his neck and across his cheeks. “How on earth did I miss this?”

“Isabela,” said Hawke warningly as she chuckled throatily.

“It's none of your business,” snapped Anders, glaring at her angrily. 

“But I thought you two hated each other! He scares the living daylights out of you!”

“He does not!” Anders exclaimed hotly, straightening up with indignation.

“Well, I can see that now,” she laughed. “How long has this been going on?”

Anders pushed himself abruptly away from the table and stood up. “Long enough but not as long as you think.”

“Anders, where-” began Hawke. Anders turned to Varric.

“I think I'd better get back to the clinic,” he said. “Thanks for the invite, Varric.” He nodded to Hawke. “Hawke.” The rogue raised his tankard in farewell.

“I'm sure he'll turn up, Anders,” he said in a reassuring tone. Anders jerked his head in what passed for assent before darting a last glare at Isabela before turning on his heel and heading back downstairs and headed for the door.

“Way to go, Rivaini,” muttered Varric as he reached for the cards.

“What? What did I say?” she protested as Hawke shook his head and downed the rest of his ale before calling for refills.

 

…..

 

Anders strode rapidly through the darkened streets of Lowtown, heading towards the quieter streets of Hightown.

_Fenris is capable of taking care of himself. More than capable._ His earlier words echoed through his other thoughts. Yes, more than capable, and for reasons that Isabela was completely unaware of – but that hadn't stopped a feeling of unease from steadily growing in his heart. 

He remembered the night he had woken in his clinic to find Fenris leaning over him, a concerned look upon his dusky features at having found the apostate passed out across his desk, pages he had no collection of writing scattered across the old wooden surface and nestled beneath his ink-stained cheek. The elf had drawn him to his feet, steadied him as he swayed, and then kissed him.

_He kissed him._

Despite the events that had transpired upon Sundermount, the overt expression of desire from the usually-taciturn, prickly and aloof elf had completely taken Anders by surprise. He had surrendered to the kiss completely, melting against the elf.

And then, after a long, bone-meltingly sweet kiss, Anders had swooned, exhaustion and sleep deprivation getting the better of him, and Fenris had silently swept him up, laid him down upon a nearby cot, tucked him up – and then left as silently as he had come.

Since then, Hawke had dragged them both off on one adventure after another; sometimes Anders, sometimes Fenris, sometimes both together. They had barely had a chance to draw breath between excursions, much less talk together and explore further this strange, unexpected kindling of... what, exactly? Desire? Lust? Anders still wasn't sure how to refer to the feeling that had grown between them upon the mountain as first one, then the other had come close to death only to be rescued by the other – and not once, but several times. Whilst upon an excursion with Hawke there was no time or privacy for one-to-one discussions or exploration of feelings; and upon their return Anders had just been too busy to seek out the elf alone. He had assumed the elf was similarly busy in his own fashion; certainly that night's visit was not repeated. Fenris had dropped by one afternoon with a bundle of fresh elfroot he'd picked up in the Hightown market, but Anders had been rushed off his feet that day with a larger-than-usual influx of patients and by the time he'd straightened, wiping blood from his hands and brushing errant strands of hair out of his eyes, the elf had gone.

Had it really been a week since they'd gotten back from dealing with that group of slavers in the smugglers' caves? He counted back upon his fingers, tapping them against the patchwork leather of his coat as he strode through silent streets, taking the steps up to Hightown two at a time with his long stride. Yes, it had; he had lost track of time, caught up with his duties in the clinic. He felt a surge of guilt at having let Fenris slip his mind so easily for so long.

His pace quickened as he approached the dilapidated mansion Fenris had claimed as his own. No doubt the elf would scoff at his sense of alarm and have some sarcastic quip when-

Anders slowed as the door of the mansion came into view. It stood ajar, hanging from one hinge. Dark splashes marked the stone of the doorstep.

“Fenris?” Anders halted and stared. Then he leapt to the door and shoved it aside as he ran inside. “Fenris!”

His voice echoed through the empty hall. Fenris was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

He raced from room to room, his staff readied in one hand, glowing energies coalesced about the other, ready to be unleashed upon any foe unwary enough to show their face. But as Anders' increasingly frantic voice echoed back to him mockingly from empty rooms and halls, it rapidly became apparent that the apostate was the only living thing in the old decaying mansion that the elf had claimed for his own. 

Dark splotches of blood upon the floor told their own tale as Anders returned to the main hall and began to investigate them more carefully. He followed the trail back to the start – the room where Fenris mostly lived. It was shabbily furnished; Fenris had not troubled himself over-much with decorating the place beyond a few wine bottles smashed against the walls and shifting the least dilapidated and most useful or comfortable items of furniture into this one room. A massive heavy-framed four-poster bed dominated one end of the room, and a large stone mantelpiece occupied the other. A couple of mismatched chairs, a wooden table with the remains of a meal for one upon it, and countless scattered and empty wine bottles were almost all that adorned the room. The only thing of value that appeared cared for was the familiar set of leather armour that rested neatly upon the armour stand near the bed, the elven warrior's greatsword standing nearby, and Anders felt a cold chill run through him as he stared at them. Wherever Fenris was, he was unarmed and unarmoured.

A wooden chair by the table was tipped over; they had come upon the elf as he dined alone. From scuff marks upon the worn carpet he could see that the table had been shoved aside in a struggle. Dark stains had dried into the fabric of the carpet, but recently – the carpet pile was stiff beneath Anders' fingers, not pliant as would have been the case with old blood that had been worn & trodden in by long wear of feet. Nor was there much odour of decay to it beneath the musty smell of the old wool-and-silk pile; a day, perhaps, had passed since it had been shed.

Anders spread his hand out and pressed it flat against the largest stain, trying to estimate how much blood had been lost. Was it that of the elf, or of his assailants? He had no way of knowing, and experimenting with magic would skirt closer to blood magic than he cared to contemplate. He was not that desperate.

He would never be that desperate.

But there were other uses for his magic here. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath then exhaled slowly, with it extending his senses out into the room and beyond, seeking out any traces of magic. If the magister Danarius had finally come to claim his wayward slave, Anders would know.

Nothing. The only traces of magic here were the glow of enchantments upon Fenris' armour and Blade of Mercy, his sword. Whoever the elf's captors were, they did not use magic, of that Anders was certain.

Glancing up, he took note of the patterns of blood, trying to discern the course of events; then gathering up his staff he pushed himself back up to his feet and slowly followed the trail of blood back down the stairs.

Fenris had barely finished eating when they had come upon him. Though unarmed and his sword was out of reach, his unknown assailants had not been able to take the elf without a struggle. He had used his eating knife as a dagger until it snapped, then fought with his bare hands and, Anders surmised, the powers granted him by the lyrium in his flesh. But Fenris had been outnumbered, and eventually he was overcome – and not too gently, the mage surmised, judging by the smeared trail of blood where a body had been dragged down the stairs. At least two people had then lifted the elf (unconscious? Not dead _oh dear Maker not dead_ ) and carried him across the hall, occasional drops of blood from Fenris' wounds betraying the way they had gone, back out through the ruined door.

Anders glanced up at the door just as Hawke froze upon the threshold, a startled look upon his face rapidly giving way to one of concern. “Anders! Is he-”

“Gone,” Anders managed bleakly.

“Blondie?” said Varric inquiringly, hurrying up behind Hawke as Anders strode slowly towards the door.

“They took him. I don't know how many – at least three. He fought them but there were too many. They overpowered him and carried him off.” He gestured towards the door, past Hawke & Varric. “We have to follow them.”

“Of course,” agreed Hawke as Anders drew level with him. He reached up a hand and rested it upon the slender apostate's feathered shoulder. “Anders, are you-”

“Don't,” warned Anders, lifting a hand; Hawke let his hand fall away and stepped aside for the mage to pass before falling in behind him as Anders led the way, his eyes tracking the blood trail.

“Not good?” asked Isabela, standing beside the old well a short distance from the door. Anders merely raised his eyes and looked at her. “Right, right,” she nodded. “Shut up Isabela.” Her dark brown eyes were unusually warm and sympathetic as she, too, stood aside for Anders to pass before falling in beside Hawke. She exchanged a glance with Varric as he brought up the rear.

“Blondie, you think maybe Danarius came calling for our favourite broody elf?” suggested Varric. Anders shook his head distractedly as he crouched down to finger a dried stain.

“No. I sensed no magic in there. Whoever it was, they weren't magisters, I'm pretty certain of it.”

“Bounty hunters then,” suggested Hawke. Anders shrugged then nodded.

“Seems the most likely answer,” he replied, pushing himself back up to his feet again. He glanced down the narrow street. “They made for the nearest exit out of Hightown.” He set off following the trail, the others close behind.

The trail went dry at the top of a narrow flight of stairs that led down into Lowtown. Anders didn't know whether to curse or be thankful; they no longer had a trail to follow, but at least he was reasonably sure the elf hadn't bled to death whilst being carried by his captors.

In lieu of any better ideas, they followed the stairs downwards into Lowtown, pausing at the bottom to fan out and study the twisted passage they emerged onto for any signs or trace of the captive elf or his abductors.

Anders pressed a hand against the nearby worn stone wall as he closed his eyes, feeling for any traces of magic here, even as Hawke and Isabela crouched down and began to scan the ground for any traces. Varric made his way to the turn in the passage, scouting ahead. Isabela took interest in a smashed crate that had been kicked to one side; Hawke glanced up and noting her focus moved to join her. Wordlessly she drew a few strands of fine white hair loose from re they had snagged on a splinter of wood and glanced at Hawke.

Anders hurried over and took the strands. Closing his eyes, he concentrated for a few minutes, then opened them again with an expression of relief. 

“He's still alive,” he told them.

“How do you know?” asked Hawke, curious.

“I've healed Fenris often enough that my magic recognises his... well, his signature, if you like,” replied Anders. “These strands of his hair give me a link to him that I can use to sense if he's alive. He is – or at least, was, when he lost this hair.”

“Can we use it to track him?” suggested Isabela.

“What, like a phylactery, you mean?” replied Hawke thoughtfully.

Anders shook his head. “I don't think so. When the Templars create a phylactery from a mage's blood, it's a form of blood magic – the blood is enchanted so they can always trace the mage through it. These strands were never enchanted – it's just lost hair. All I can tell is that Fenris was still alive up to the point he lost these strands.” He made a faint noise of frustration and stared down the alleyway ahead of them.

At that moment Varric reappeared around the corner. “You should come see this,” he called, gesturing to the three to follow him. Exchanging glances, they hurried to join him as he made his way back up the twisting passage. 

The dwarf gestured to a muddy puddle that stretched across the dusty floor from a cracked pipe near the base of the wall. Isabela and Hawke leapt over the murky water then began to investigate the ground immediately beyond.

“There are footprints here,” Hawke announced. “Dried now, but you can still make them out.” He glanced up at Anders and Varric. “And there are two pairs of bare feet.”

“Two?” exclaimed Anders. “Elves?”

“Looks like it,” replied Hawke, glancing down at the faint traces. “But there are two pairs of booted feet as well.” He glanced down the passageway ahead. “I'm not familiar with this alley, Varric – does it fork off anywhere ahead?”

“Not to my knowledge, Hawke. It leads to a stairway down into Darktown near Blondie's clinic.”

Anders blinked. “I was sure I knew all the passageways and stairs near my clinic, but I've never seen this one before,” he remarked.

“Not surprising, Blondie,” replied Varric. “It comes out in a Coterie hide-out behind the sewer outlet.”

“So we can expect trouble ahead then,” replied Hawke, drawing his swords as Isabela reached for her knives.

“Did Fenris' captors run into trouble with them?” wondered Anders slowly. “Or do you think the Coterie were in on this?”

“That's a good question, Blondie,” replied Varric. “Let's go see if there are any Coterie lurking around to give us the answers, eh?”

Anders reached for his staff and nodded. “I'm sure they'll be very talkative with a little... persuasion,” he grinned ferally.

Varric unslung Bianca and patted her smooth walnut stick with a smile that matched Anders' for grimness. “Bianca can be very persuasive when she's in the mood.” He turned and led the way onwards, Hawke and Anders dropping into step behind as the Rivaini pirate brought up the rear.

The Coterie were about to have a very bad day.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing he was aware of as consciousness slowly returned was pain. 

His whole body seemed an interconnected network of pain, focussed around a sharp, white-hot shaft of pure agony that seemed to pierce him right through the gut, paralysing him as the wound throbbed in time to his heartbeat, and each pulse sent an echoing lance of pain through the lyrium brands entwining his entire body.

His head ached abominably. He tried to open his eyes, but the left one was crusted over with dried blood, and the right was so badly swollen it would not open.

He was lying upon his left side, arms bound tightly behind his back. He could feel ropes binding his legs at thigh, knee and ankle. His left cheek rested against bare wooden planks that smelled faintly of meadow hay. As full consciousness slowly returned, he became aware that he was in a moving cart of some sort – and he was not alone. His keen ears could discern the sounds of more than one person breathing nearby, stirring slightly as the movement of the cart jostled them in their seats. 

He lay still, feigning unconsciousness whilst waiting for the mental fog to dissipate and silently assessing the state of his body. He had not gone down easily; in addition to the head wound that had finally dropped him into the less than tender mercies of his captors and the black eye, the small of his back ached where he had sustained kicks and punches over his kidneys. At least one rib was broken, and his right leg throbbed where he had taken a wound in the fight - though from the feel of it, his captors had bandaged it. He was still light-headed from the concussion and loss of blood, but all things considered he had weathered worse – save for the agonising wound in his abdomen.

He was utterly disgusted with himself for having been taken so easily. They had caught him just as he had finished his simple evening meal. He had not even heard them enter; he still wondered at that. There were four of them, though he had only gotten sight of the two city elf mercenaries – he had heard the others behind him but, unarmed and without armour as he had been, he had been hard-pressed to defend himself from the mercenaries.

Even without Blade of Mercy, Fenris was a fearsome opponent, making full use of his abilities in unarmed combat and the abilities granted him by the lyrium in his flesh. The mercenaries were hampered, also, by the need to capture him alive rather than slay him outright – Fenris was not so restricted and indeed fought to kill. But the long reach of their swords put him at a disadvantage; and swift though he was, they had evidently taken potions to grant them haste that near matched him. It was inevitable, perhaps, that he should fall to their assault – but at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he had not gone down easily. Though his blood had been shed heavily, the two mercenaries had shed at least an equal amount of blood, and he was reasonably certain that one of them must now be sporting a sling to support a broken collarbone, unless they had healing potions aplenty with them.

And yet, even with the sword wound that laid his thigh open from groin to knee and the head wound, yet still he might have rallied against them; drawn upon the wolf within, embraced his lupine form and put the fear of Fen'Harel truly into these city-born elves – until one of them plunged a dagger of pure silver into his guts, unleashing an agony that almost rivalled that of the lyrium branding. 

They had known what he was. And they had come prepared with silver against him.

He had gone down then, succumbing to his wounds; yet at the very least, he had left adequate signs of the struggle behind that a keen-eyed rogue such as Hawke or Varric would be able to read; with luck, his friends would not be too far behind. Sooner or later he would be missed, and then the hunt would be on.

Wouldn't it?

Fenris wished he could be that optimistic. Hawke was a busy man, as was the dwarf; sometimes the quiet periods between their expeditions could stretch to a couple of weeks or more. And who else would notice him gone? Perhaps Isabela.

The mage?

No, why should he? Anders rarely left his clinic between excursions with Hawke's little band of misfits. Fenris had not returned since that night when he had found himself, sleepless, drawn to the small clinic in Darktown where the lanterns had long been extinguished for hours but a single candle still flickered within.

He focussed on that memory now, willing his mind away from the wound in his stomach, his body wracked with poison fire from the silver dagger still embedded in his body. He recalled how those soft brown eyes had caught the candle's golden glow as Anders had drowsily lifted his head at the elf's touch. His sleepy confusion as Fenris had drawn him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed, then silencing his bewildered words with a kiss.

It had been a thing of impulse, that kiss; borne of fascination, a strange connection forged in the face of death and danger, amid deathly cold and the blades of enemies. Borne of a growing respect, a new understanding, an opening of eyes, minds... hearts? Perhaps. Fenris had no expectations of what would follow such a kiss; he knew only the _now_ of wolfsong, the eternal present of the hunter. Unable to sleep, he was irresistibly drawn to the mage, not knowing or perhaps, not caring for _why_ or _how_ , knowing only the desire of _here_ and the rightness of the moment. He kissed Anders because it seemed the right thing to do in that moment.

What might have transpired next between them however would remain unknown, for the exhausted mage had swooned and would have fallen if not for the strong hands of the elf which swept him up into a sure embrace, bearing him gently to a cot. He had gently removed the unconscious apostate's boots, covered him in blankets, smoothed the tousled blond hair away from the shadowed eyes closed in sleep... and then slipped away as silently as he had come.

And now Fenris clung to those memories, replaying them in his mind, interleaved with fragmentary scenes from other moments in their recent shared past – the mage's breath warm upon his furred flank in sleep. The tingling warmth of Anders' healing magic drawing the elf back from death's brink. A shared moment in a silent aravel.

An incautious movement, and Fenris gasped as the wound pulled unbearably, the blade within him twisting. The gasp turned into an involuntary scream which drew his captor's attention; but mercifully he was spared their attentions as the pain overwhelmed him and he sank back into unconsciousness again, still unaware of who it was had captured him or where they were taking him, only that they wanted him alive – but not unscathed. He longed to feel Anders' healing magic, feel it set the lyrium singing in his flesh and in his very veins, drive out the insidious poison fire of the silver.

His last thought as his mind spiralled into darkness was how strange it was that he, of all people, should find himself longing for a mage's touch. And then he knew no more.


	4. Chapter 4

Varric nudged the corpse with one booted foot distastefully. “This makes no sense, Hawke,” he said, shaking his head.

“Tell me something I don't know, Varric,” replied the taller man, rifling through the pockets of another corpse with an expression of disgust.

The Coterie members had obviously been dead for a couple of days, which didn't bode well. Their bodies reeked already of decay; the stench was almost overpowering in the confined space of the hut.

“Why hasn't the Coterie investigated?” wondered Isabela. Varric shook his head.

“You've hit the nail on the head, Rivaini,” he replied. “Why indeed?”

“So are we looking for elven Coterie members, or some rival gang?” mused Hawke, sitting back on his heels. “The only real rival to the Coterie is Athenril.”

“You worked for her for a year, Hawke; you probably know her better than I. Is this the kind of job she'd take on? She surely must know Fenris is one of ours.” Varric tapped his jaw thoughtfully with one gloved hand then shrugged. None of this mess made any sense from start to finish.

Hawke pushed himself up to his feet. “She is a smuggler, not a mercenary,” he pointed out with a shrug. “Though if the coin were good enough, she'd likely take it on without asking too many questions. She's perhaps more ethical than some in Kirkwall – for a smuggler. But even she has her price.”

“So we go pay a call on Athenril next?” said Isabela, twirling her daggers with a smile. Varric raised an eyebrow at her, and she grinned at him before sheathing them on her back once more. Varric sighed, then glanced at Hawke before jerking his head meaningfully in Anders' direction. Hawke glanced over.

Anders stood by himself near the door, slightly hunched over and pressing his forehead against the smooth ash shaft of his staff. He seemed oblivious to the others or the stinking corpses about their feet.

“Anders? Are you OK?” asked Hawke. Anders seemed not to hear him; it wasn't until Isabela laid a hand on his forearm that he started and looked up, momentarily disoriented.

“You OK, sweet cheeks?” she asked quietly. He blinked, then shook his head.

“I'll be fine. You mentioned Athenril?” He glanced at Hawke.

“It's the only lead we've got right now, unless you have a better suggestion.”

Anders shook his head. Hawke waited a moment; when it was obvious Anders had nothing further to add, he straightened up and gestured at the door. “Yes, well, let's get started,” he suggested. “Whoever has Fenris has a head start on us.” He headed out the door, the others falling into step behind him as they headed off towards the docks.

\---

“Hawke!” smiled Athenril, rising from behind the desk where he'd found her perusing cargo manifests and letters of marque. “Long time no see. Have you decided to reconsider your... hasty departure? I've always got work for a good hand, and you were one of my best.”

“Afraid not, Athenril; business of another kind I'm afraid,” replied Hawke, softening the effect of his tone and words with an easy smile.

“Ah, well, the offer is always there,” replied the elven smuggler with a rueful shrug. “You can't blame me for trying. To business then: what is it you're after?”

“A couple of elves looking to hire the same, a few days ago. They... took something of mine. I want it back.”

Anders turned and stared at Hawke, raising an eyebrow silently at both Hawke's words and the harshness of his voice. Athenril took it in her stride however, turning to her desk to sift through the papers there.

“My men are blameless, Hawke; they sign on to do the job they're paid to do, just as you did. You know my people and the way I work, Hawke – or should do by now. It's the person that paid that you need.”

“I won't harm your people Athenril – if they don't get in my way. And I'm sure they're not being paid enough to face me.” Hawke's sudden grin was feral. “I just want to know who paid the coin.”

Athenril glanced up at him, her sharp gaze measuring him. Then she nodded.

“You're right, they're not.” She straightened up. “Two Dalish, accompanied by one of the Alienage elves. The Dalish paid the coin; the city elf was just their guide. They left through the tunnels. My people haven't returned yet; I'd appreciate it if you don't rough them up too much, Hawke. They're only doing their job.”

“I make no promises,” warned Hawke.

“Understood,” replied Athenril. They held each other's gaze for a moment, mutual understanding passing silently. Then Athenril nodded and turned away.

Hawke stared at the others, then jerked his head and they followed him outside.

“Mind telling me what that was all about?” asked Isabela. “You two looked like a pair of Mabari facing off!”

“You're not far wrong, Rivaini,” replied Varric for Hawke, who was silent as he led the way down through Lowtown. “That was pretty much what was going on there.”

Anders moved up beside Hawke. Quietly he murmured, “Something of yours?”

“No-one harms my friends and gets away with it. No-one,” replied Hawke quietly, a note of steel still in his voice.

“I'm glad we're on the same side then,” the apostate remarked wryly. “I'd hate to get on your bad side.”

Hawke flashed him a surprisingly warm grin. “I think you'd have to really try bloody hard to piss me off, Anders,” he said reassuringly, lightly mock-punching the startled mage on the arm.

“I think he likes you,” remarked Isabela in his ear as he dropped back a little, still surprised. He gave her a glare. She flashed him an irrepressible grin and he sighed, rolling his eyes before dropping further back to walk with Varric.

_They didn't understand. None of them did._ Anders trudged beside the dwarf, eyes on his scuffed and worn boots as they made their way through Lowtown and down into Darktown, through old and familiar passageways.

Fenris had been a slave; in many ways, part of him still was – enslaved by old memories as much as Anders himself was, in many ways. Anders knew only too well how it felt to be captured, wounded, bound and dragged away by captors who seemed none too caring whether their captive lived or died. He could recall the memories of every single escape attempt from the Circle; every blow from his Templar jailers on the long, painful treks back to the tower. The punishments they inflicted, knowing they were immune from chastisement because after all, he was just another mage. Who would care if he lived or died?

Just another runaway mage. _Just another runaway slave._ Where did one become the other? There was no clear line; the boundary was blurred. Sometimes, looking into Fenris' eyes was almost like looking into a strange, exotic mirror. The eyes were green instead of amber, but the haunting expression was the same.

How would he feel if Templars suddenly smashed down the clinic door, struck him down with a well-placed smite before he could react, laid into him with gauntleted fists and blades? _(And worse... Things could always get worse.)_ He could feel the panic rising even at the mere thought. Fenris... how would he react, wounded, unarmed? How must he feel?

He couldn't stop thinking about how much blood had soaked into that carpet... and the corpses, dead two days at lease.

_Two days. Maker, let us not be too late. Oh please...._


	5. Chapter 5

They knew the smugglers' tunnels as well as the smugglers did; in many ways, better, for Anders had so often led escaping mages through these dark passages, avoiding both the smugglers themselves and any slavers that might try their hands at acquiring fresh blood and talent for Tevinter masters, and evading pursuit by Templars. Between them the three rogues and the apostate made good time through the tunnels, their passage swift, silent and sure-footed.

They were making up the lost time now, of that Anders was certain; Fenris' captors were burdened with the unconscious elf, but their pursuers were travelling light and fast, making use of every short-cut they knew. They were pretty certain they knew now the identity of Fenris' captors and where they were headed – but Sundermount was large, and they doubted Kuriel would return with Fenris to the Dalish camp of the Sabrae clan – not and risk the censure of Keeper Marethari. By going after Fenris like this, Kuriel had gone against the Dalish's own rules of _nanalin_ – he would be as much an outcast by his own actions as, in her own way, Merrill was. They needed to get ahead of the four elves and their prisoner before they could lose them in the hills above the Wounded Coast.

There was no time underground; all was dark, save for the very faint glow of spellfire Anders cast onto the head of his staff to light their way, barely enough to keep them from stubbing toes on outcroppings of rock or tumble into each other in the dark. They spoke but little; by unspoken agreement they didn't bother with setting camp, instead carrying on through the night.

They emerged onto a grassy slope that was barely kissed by the first light of dawn as they hastened out into the fresh air. Scouting around, they soon picked up on the traces of the four elves and then, a little further on, the traces of a small cart drawn by a single horse, its shod hooves marking out clearly the way it had passed in the soft soil.

“Not a large horse – maybe a sturdy fell pony,” decided Hawke as he bent over the tracks.

“Borrowed from a local farmer perhaps?” suggested Anders. Hawke shrugged.

“I'd imagine Kuriel would be in a fair amount of disgrace,” replied Hawke. “He had to take what he could get – I doubt the Keeper would have let him waltz off with a pair of their prized halla.”

“Halla?” asked Isabela. “Oh, you mean those funny white deer things that pull their wagons?”

“I wouldn't let Daisy hear you talk about them that way if I were you, Rivaini,” Varric cautioned as he unslung Bianca and inspected her stock carefully. “The Dalish get mighty precious about their halla.”

“They're less beasts of burden, more honoured companions,” explained Anders as he fingered a dark rust-coloured stain in the soil. “It's said that long ago, the Dalish rode halla into battle, but now they just pull the Dalish aravels.”

“Not quite so honoured as they make out then,” observed Isabela with a snort.

“Let's press on,” replied Hawke. “They can't be far ahead.” He stood and shouldered his pack again, nodding towards the trail. They fell into easy pace with him, moving fast at a steady lope that Varric could keep up with yet that ate up the miles steadily. From the distance between the cart tracks and the depth of the wheel ruts, it was obvious that it was lightly laden and that most of the captors were on foot. From the length of the pony's strides they evidently weren't in any great hurry either and seemed oblivious to the possibility of pursuit.

“I don't get it,” grumbled Anders. “Kuriel must know we wouldn't just abandon Fenris to whoever took him. Why isn't he more bothered? He faced off against us once before, he knows you're the Champion, Hawke – if I were in his shoes I'd be just about shitting myself at the thought of you on my trail. So why hasn't he bothered to hide his trail or evade us?”

“Good question,” replied Hawke.

“Ambush?” suggested Varric. Hawke nodded.

“Seems likely, doesn't it?” the Champion agreed.

“Shall I do the honours then?” suggested Isabela, moving forwards.

“Please do,” smiled Hawke, as the Rivaini pirate slipped off into the bushes and rapidly became hidden from view and hearing.

“Anders?” asked Hawke. Anders was already calling forth a whirling ball of energy in readiness; he flashed the human rogue a fierce grin, all teeth and no mirth. Behind him, Varric patted Bianca as he popped open the arms of the crossbow and fanned out to the side for a better range of fire.

They advanced cautiously yet swiftly, ears pricked for any signs of trouble or alarm from up ahead. Anders concentrated as they moved, sending out his healer's senses to the limit of his reach, the strands of Fenris' hair tied about his left wrist like a talisman that he used to focus on – and, strangely, draw strength from, even as his grip tightened, knuckles whitening, upon the haft of his staff.

A low whistle from the rocks above had them jumping then relaxing as Isabela dropped back into view.

“Four of them with the cart – two city elves, both male, presumably Athenril's people; two Dalish – one a female. One of the city elves is riding in the cart with his arm in a sling; there's something in the bottom of the cart I couldn't quite make out – presumably Fenris. The two Dalish are armed with bows and knives, the other city elf has a pair of swords.”

“Sounds almost too easy,” commented Varric. “Where's the catch?”

“There's always a catch,” replied Hawke, unsheathing his swords and rolling his shoulders to loosen them. “So, where are the rest then? I don't fancy picking these few off only to have half the bloody tribe come down on our heads.”

“I don't know about elves – but there seem to be an awful lot of wolves around,” replied Isabela. “There must be a whole pack out here right now, and from the growling I heard they're none too friendly. Big, too.”

Varric, Anders and Hawke exchanged glances. “You think they know what Fenris is?” wondered Hawke.

“Broody never ran with any pack that we knew of,” pointed out the dwarf. “He's always been a loner.”

“There's no love lost between their kind and the Dalish though,” replied Anders.

“What are you all talking about?” asked Isabela, perplexed. “Is there something I'm missing here?”

Varric gestured to Hawke. “Do you want to tell her or shall I?”

“Fenris is a werewolf,” Anders said quietly. Isabela's eyes widened as he continued, “I discovered this a couple of months back – when we rescued that group of kids and adults from the slavers. I kept it to myself at first, but then the others found out the last time we were here up Sundermount.”

“Fenris killed the brother of the one called Kuriel,” Hawke added. “There was... a bit of a contretemps over the issue.”

“Understatement of the year,” remarked Varric. “Kuriel tried to kill Blondie with a poisoned arrow after calling out Fenris in a duel. Fenris damned well near-killed Kuriel, and the Keeper decided Dalish honour was satisfied enough with that.”

“There were quite a few Dalish who shared Kuriel's attitude to werewolves,” Anders continued. “We never thought they'd actually come into Kirkwall after him though, and we figured as long as Fenris was with Hawke when outside the city then they wouldn't dare move against him – with or without the Keeper's knowledge.”

Isabela gave a long low whistle. “It all makes sense now,” she nodded. “Except they _did_ come looking. So the question is, is it just these four we have to deal with, or are they just the bait for a trap?”

“Like Varric said, this seems too easy,” replied Hawke. “Is this Kuriel really as stupid as he seems?”

“Or is he just trying to draw out Blondie to where he can finish him off?” finished Varric.

“A trap for me?” Anders raised an eyebrow, then twirled his staff.

Isabela twirled her knives as Hawke hefted his blades and Varric patted Bianca.

“We've got your back, Blondie. Never fear.”

Anders grinned back. “Let's teach them why mages are feared,” he suggested.

Hawke gestured at the path ahead, and the mage led the way.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 _Wolves_.

He could smell them, even above the coppery tang of his own blood. As he drifted back towards consciousness, the _awareness_ of the wolves was there, a palpable presence in his mind as well as in his nostrils, so much more coming to him than mere scent alone.

Was this normal for one of his kind, or part of Danarius' multiple “gifts” to his pet? Fenris had no way of knowing; he had never met another werewolf. He had run with the normal wolves in forests here and there in his travels, but though he'd heard rumours here and there of werewolves he'd never followed them up. He was a loner by nature; lone wolf in name and deed, it seemed.

These wolves, though; there was something different about them. They were not like the wolves he had run with before. Were they as he was? A werewolf? Was this why he could practically see them with his mind, feel them all around him? Could they sense him the same way? He had no idea.

The pain was still present; it made it hard to think. The silver blade was still embedded in his guts, burning with acid fire; a white-hot ball of pain that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, reaching tendrils of agony out into his limbs. He tried to distance himself from the pain, as he had so often done before – but something about this wound made that impossible. His body was being poisoned by the silver, unable to heal itself, the lyrium lines buckling and twisting somehow within his flesh and amplifying each pulse of pain as neurons screamed silently.

He was panting, he distantly realised; faint sounds – whimpers? - escaping unbidden from his throat in his distraction. He gritted his teeth, fighting down the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm him with the pain, and struggled to open his eyes. The right eye was still too swollen to open more than the merest slit, but after blinking fiercely he managed to open the left eye, flakes of dried blood still clinging to his eyelashes.

The cart had halted, and Fenris could hear sounds of wolves growling and snarling above that of a struggle. The wolfpack had attacked his captors, it seemed – and were coming off worse than their four-legged attackers. There was still one present in the cart with him – the city elf whose collarbone Fenris had broken when first they came for him. He was fumbling nervously with his blade in his left hand, the right immobilised in a sling. He stood no chance. Even as Fenris drew his legs up beneath him and managed to lurch into a kneeling position, hampered by his bonds, there was a blur of black and grey fur as two huge wolves threw themselves into the cart and launched themselves at the elf.

A scream, a spray of blood; and then silence as the elf fell beneath the savage jaws of his lupine executors. And from Fenris' kneeling position, he could see two other bodies ripped apart beside the cart, limbs strewn around in pools of blood. Of Kuriel there was no sign – had he escaped? Fenris had no way of knowing. About eight large wolves stood around the cart, a couple licking at minor wounds. The two in the cart turned their yellow gaze upon the lone bound elf, but their gaze held no malice, only curiosity. As Fenris regarded them warily, hunched over in pain, the black wolf's form shifted, blurred, then became more humanoid as his grey companion also shapeshifted; she was revealed to be a young woman with long silvery-grey hair and piercing yellow eyes. She reached towards him then hesitated.

“You are hurt.” It was a statement, not a question. Fenris nodded. “May I?” she gestured.

Fenris slumped against the side of the cart, uncurling a little so she could see the hilt of the silver dagger where it protruded from his abdomen. “Silver,” he managed to gasp.

There were hisses of indrawn breath and growls all around them; the woman's male companion had grown visually agitated at the sight of the wound, and as Fenris lifted his glance he saw that about half of the wolves had also shifted into human form and were crowded closer, staring aghast at him. He suddenly felt overwhelmed, claustrophobic; so many, so close – their regard and palpable concern was stifling. “Keep back!” he rasped, hunching in upon himself, curling around the pain, teeth bared in a snarl.

The black wolfman growled as he rose to his feet, and the rest of the pack backed away, falling silent as he stepped to the rear of the cart.

“Carodan, I'll need my healing kit,” the woman called as she knelt beside Fenris. “It's alright,” she added quietly. “You're amongst your own kind here. You're safe now.”

“Are you a mage?” asked Fenris suspiciously as he glared up at her from beneath his white hair, filthy and streaked with blood. She shook her head.

“No. I am just a healer. I do what I can with bandages, poultices and herbs, I'm afraid.” She smiled as he visibly relaxed and did not flinch when she tentatively reached out a hand to touch his shoulder briefly. “My name is Cersei. Will you let me help you?”

He nodded, and slumped back against the wooden cart side. “I am called Fenris,” he replied quietly.

Cersei nodded and smiled encouragingly as she leaned over him, her fingers delicately probing around the wound but not actually touching it. Her fingers were also carefully skirting around the lyrium brands in his flesh, he noted. Could she sense what they were?

“The knife must come out, but it will be painful,” she warned him quietly.

“I am no stranger to pain,” he replied tersely.

“So I can see,” she replied. She reached to her belt and he tensed as she drew a dagger, then relaxed as she gestured to the ropes binding him. He nodded assent, and Cersei swiftly cut him free. Fenris could not hold back a groan as feeling returned painfully to his hands and feet; Cersei tucked her blade away then set to work chafing his arms and legs, being careful of his leg wound, helping to restore blood flow and feeling.

Carodan returned with a leather satchel which Cersei took wordlessly. She took out a sturdy leather gauntlet, but Carodan laid his hand over hers as she started to pull it on.

“Let me,” he said gruffly, his voice a harsh deep baritone. Fenris frowned; he was sure he had heard that accent before somewhere, but could not quite place it.

Cersei glanced to Fenris, then nodded to Carodan who took the glove then climbed up into the cart. He drew on the glove, then laid his ungauntleted hand firmly upon Fenris' shoulder.

“Are you ready, brother?” he asked.

“I'm not your-” Fenris began angrily, but got no further as with the gloved hand, Carodan grasped the hilt of the silver dagger and wrenched it out of the stricken elf's guts in one strong pull. Fenris threw his head back and screamed.

 

* * *

 

 

Anders' head jerked round and his eyes widened as the scream echoed to them distantly. He knew that voice.

As he glanced round at the others, he saw they recognised it too.

“Fenris,” he breathed.

"Anders, wait a minute -" began Hawke, but Anders didn't hear him; he was already off and running towards the sound, even as it cut off suddenly.

“Fenris!” he cried. “I'm coming! Hold on!”

His feet flew.

 


	7. Chapter 7

He rounded the turn in the path between the two walls of weather-worn sandy stone, the energies flickering over his outspread fingers dancing and coalescing into a ball of fire as he skidded to a halt.

His glance was drawn immediately to the slumped form of Fenris, battered, covered in blood, lying unmoving in the small wooden cart; a large black-haired warrior was crouched over the unconscious elf, a long bloodied dagger still clutched in one gloved hand as blood spread from a gaping wound in Fenris' abdomen.

Anders cried out in grief and fury; he didn't know if Fenris had survived the man's murderous attack, but Maker damn him if he was going to give the man a second chance. Twirling his staff, he channelled the ball of energy into a fireball that struck the man full in the chest and face, knocking clean off his feet and over the side of the cart. The warrior's female companion leapt to her feet and let out a scream of rage...

And then a whole pack of wolves was streaming towards him, howling in rage and fury, and Anders felt the blood drain from his face as sheer raw terror took a hold of him.

In a sheer blind panic he swung his staff around in an arc in front of him, keeping them at bay as he followed it up with a wall of ice before stumbling slowly backwards, his heart racing, knuckles white where he gripped the staff tightly. He stared at the wolves, all larger than any other wolf he had ever seen, apart from Fenris, and his thoughts lost almost all coherence.

He was a child again, and he was going to die.

His eyesight flickered, growing blurred; he felt himself falling away inside as a surge of spirit energy rose up inside him. His skin split and cracked as electric blue energies sheathed his skin in spirit power, his vision slowly whiting out as he felt Justice taking control.

Helpless, his gaze lifted to look upon Fenris.

Who opened his eyes and looked upon him with horror, even as Justice subsumed Anders and the apostate knew no more.

“Justice, _no!_ ” cried Fenris weakly, reaching one bloodstained hand out in entreaty as the possessed mage swung the staff once more and raised one hand, calling up glowing blue spirit fire as the inhuman gaze tracked over the wolves like so many moving targets, assessing them. Seemingly fixing on one wolf – a large shaggy dark grey brute with only one eye – the abomination raised the hand wreathed in power and gestured, enveloping the wolf in coruscating blue plasma fire that set the beast's pelt aflame as it screamed in agony – a strange, unnerving sound, halfway between human and lupine.

“Justice, _STOP!_ ” screamed Fenris, clawing his way upright, clutching one hand tight against the wound in his guts even as Cersei tried to restrain him. He shrugged her off, fear for Anders and the wolfpack driving him on as he half-stumbled, half-fell from the cart then staggered towards the glowing abomination. “Anders! Listen to me! _Anders!_ ”

The abomination paused. Had it heard him? Had Anders somehow heard him? Could he reach the mage in time before the demon possessing his body destroyed the whole pack? He didn't know. He only knew he had to try. “Anders, listen to me! I'm alive! These are not our enemies!”

The abomination cocked its head to one side then slowly turned its baleful glare upon the injured elf as he staggered towards it, clutching at the fur coats of the wolves as they pressed closer around him, growling, supporting his faltering footsteps with the strength of their immense flanks as he leaned into their warmth. He pressed forward.

“Anders. Please. For my sake, please stop this.”

The eyes flickered; was that a hint of amber brown behind the electric blue? He was close enough to touch the abomination now. Fenris was vaguely aware of voices shouting in warning beyond Justice, the wolves snarling and howling in answer, but his world had narrowed to the terrible ache in his guts, the feeling of hot, wet blood steadily flooding down his legs, the waves of weakness sweeping over him as he raised a hand that trembled uncontrollably with weakness... and the glowing blue eyes that held his gaze with their own, even as the expression on the stern face softened.

Fenris pressed his bloodied hand against the abomination's chest and stared up into the troubled face before him. He had not imagined it. The blue hue was fading, and it was Anders who caught him as he slumped.

“Fenris!” breathed the apostate; and the next moment, he was lying in Anders' arms as the mage dropped to his knees and hastily called up healing energies in his hand, pressing his palm flat over the mortal wound and closing his eyes as he began to heal the dying elf.

Fenris let his eyes close in exhaustion.

“Open your eyes. Damn you, Fenris, open your eyes and look at me!” snarled Anders, even as he continued to pour soothing cool healing energy into Fenris' body. The emerald eyes flickered open and Fenris frowned in faint confusion.

“Tired,” he murmured.

“I don't care, you damn well keep your eyes open and look at me, Maker blast your balls!” swore Anders. Fenris blinked. The mage seemed angry. And... were his cheeks wet?

“Mage, are you... crying?” he murmured weakly.

“Andraste's flaming knickers, elf!” swore the apostate, turning his face away and wiping it against a feathered pauldron. “You stay with me, do you hear? I'm not going to lose you. I refuse to let you die!”

“Die? I'm not going to die, mage,” rumbled Fenris in irritation. “I just want to sleep....”

“Well you can't, I'm not going to let you, you hear? You can't sleep, Fenris. You're too close to death.” He glanced behind himself. “Lyrium – has anyone got any lyrium with them? I'm almost tapped out here!”

Fenris was only dimly surprised to see Varric appear at the apostate's side and press a flask of blue liquid into Anders' waiting hand.

“What are you doing here?” he rumbled. Varric raised an eyebrow at the elf.

“Saving your broody ass and stopping Blondie here from making a huge mistake; what does it look like?” replied the dwarf.

“You're doing a lousy job then,” replied Fenris calmly.

“Tell me about it,” muttered the dwarf as he glanced up. Fenris followed his gaze to where Hawke and Isabela were deep in discussion with Cersei and a very disgruntled-looking Carodan.

Anders downed the lyrium in one, then bent back to the task of healing Fenris. The elf regarded him silently as he felt strength slowly returning to his body, wounds closing and healing under the apostate's skilled ministrations. As Anders gradually slumped lower, the massive expenditure of mana steadily taking its toll of his meagre energy reserves, the elf slowly lifted his hand and gently laid it over Anders' hand where it still rested, pressed firmly against the now-closed and knitted skin of Fenris' abdomen, the elf's lyrium brands finally starting to react to the mage's touch, the energy stirring not unpleasantly in the brands that swirled across his dusky skin.

Anders' head jerked up, startled, at the unexpected touch. He blinked and frowned slightly at the elf in question as the last of the healing energy drained into Fenris' body, leaving the mage empty and exhausted.

“Thank you,” said Fenris quietly.

Anders blinked, then smiled. Then he glanced up at Hawke and the others, then round at the pack of wolves that surrounded them, and his face went blank before he folded in upon himself, covering his face with his hands and moaning. “Oh Maker. What did I do?”

Fenris sat up and reached for the apostate's shoulder. “You did nothing wrong. You thought you were defending me, as did Justice.”

Anders let his hands fall and stared around himself at the wolves and shivered uncontrollably. “So many,” he breathed. “Oh Maker, so many.”

Fenris grasped both Anders' shoulders and shook him firmly until the panicking mage stared back at him, wild-eyed. “Anders, stop! They mean us no harm! They will not hurt you!”

Anders was panting in distress, clutching at Fenris' wrists with a strength born of desperation. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a whimper.

Fenris stared at him, at a loss what to do. The mage was gripped by wild abject terror, incoherent and irrational, shivering wildly beneath the elf's hands, surrounded by his own personal nightmare. “Varric!” uttered Fenris. “Do something!”

The dwarf stared from Fenris to Anders, then shook his head. He stepped up behind the oblivious mage, hefting Bianca in his hands. “Forgive me, Bianca,” he murmured to the crossbow. Then the shining polished walnut stick of the crossbow came down hard against the base of Anders' skull, and the blond mage's eyes rolled back in his head before he collapsed unconscious to the ground.

“Bianca hates having to hurt her friends, Broody. Hope this isn't going to become a habit,” he admonished Fenris.

“Perhaps now you can explain what the hell is going on, Fenris?” suggested Hawke.

Fenris glanced back to the unconscious apostate, then sighed and pushed himself to his feet and turned to face his friends.

This was going to be complicated.


	8. Chapter 8

Anders took a while to come around; utter exhaustion from the intense and demanding healing combined with the concussion kept him under for a number of hours, and the party were getting worried when finally he stirred. He blinked confusedly for several minutes, trying to figure out where he was and how he'd got there.

Hawke crouched down next to the bemused mage who was plucking at the furs and blankets he'd been placed in whilst unconscious by Hawke and Carodan, who seemed to be the alpha male of this particular pack of werewolves. Despite the singing to his face and chest the huge warrior appeared to harbour no animosity towards the unconscious mage once the confusion had been explained. The wolf who had been the victim of Justice's attack, an older male named Wenfast, was less well off, but Cersei had assured them it looked worse than it was, and werewolves healed fast – at least, when silver was not involved. Even with the glove on, Carodan had sustained burns through the leather when he had grasped the dagger to pull it from Fenris' body.

Hawke had feared another situation like Kuriel, but strangely the werewolves seemed to bear Anders no ill-will even after the attack on Wenfast.

“It is the _now_ of wolf-thought,” Cersei had explained. “Fenris is part of your pack, even though you are not of our kind; the pack defends its own. Wenfast understands that. He would do the same for anyone in our pack.”

They had set up camp together down by the beach in the mouth of the same cave where the group had rested with the freed captives of the slavers a couple of months ago. They had made up a bed for Anders with a pile of sleeping furs and blankets, and Hawke guessed this must be one of their regular haunts. He couldn't help but eye the elf thoughtfully when he thought Fenris wasn't looking, wondering if he had known others of his kind were nearby. Was that why he chose it?

“No, it was not,” rumbled the elf suddenly, startling him as he appeared at Hawke's shoulder as the rogue waited for the mage to wake. “I had no idea they were near; I do not think they have used this particular cave in some time. They are the first of...” Fenris hesitated, then went on, “my kind that I have encountered.” He dropped to a crouch next to Hawke. “How strange, to hear myself say such words: 'my kind'. For so long I wondered if I was the only one, until I began to encounter rumours, tales, once out of Seheron. Yet still I could not believe that there were other... shapeshifters... beside myself until you told me of the Witch of the Wild. And now here we are, and here they are. I do not know what to think, Hawke. They are like me, and yet....”

“They're not,” finished Hawke. Fenris nodded.

“Just so.” He held up a hand, the firelight shining like liquid gold over the lyrium brands etched into his skin; he studied them for a moment, then clenched his fist. “There are none like me.”

Hawke stared at the fist, then at Fenris.

“You're not alone though,” he said quietly. “You may be the only Fenris, but you have friends.”

“As ever, you are right, Hawke,” sighed Fenris. “I... apologise. I have not thanked you adequately for your attempt to aid me, and my mood is... morose. I am not good company, I fear. I am... too disquieted.”

“We didn't do it for thanks, and you've pulled my backside out of a tight spot more often than I care to remember,” demurred Hawke. “You've got a lot to think about. Kuriel, for instance.”

Fenris' expression darkened. “That one,” he snarled. “He may have escaped the slaughter of his hirelings, but he will not evade me for long, Hawke. I will have my revenge upon him in the end.”

“We will,” corrected Hawke, and Fenris shot him a sharp look that softened into one of gratitude. He was about to reply when Anders stirred beside them.

“Who dropped a rock on me?” he slurred, blinking slowly into wakefulness. “Or – no, it was Oghren's foul brew again, wasn't it?” He groaned and rubbed his face with a tired hand. “Oh Maker, my head's splitting.”

“Who's Oghren?” asked Hawke, and Anders stiffened then lurched upright before regretting the incautious movement and clutching his head. “Someone I used to know who had a far worse taste in alcohol than our fine friend Varric,” he muttered. “Ow. Ow.” He carefully probed a lump on the back of his head. “Someone hit me. Who hit me?” He looked up at Hawke.

“That would be our fine friend Varric,” replied Hawke with a grin.

“Varric?? But why?” exclaimed Anders, channelling a little healing magic into his hand then directing it into the contusion at the base of his skull. His expression relaxed as the pain dissipated.

“That would be because you were in a blind panic, Blondie,” replied the dwarf as he came to join the small gathering around Anders' campbed.

“I was? But why-” began Anders, then broke off as memories flooded back. He blanched, and Hawke rested a reassuring hand on one feathered shoulder.

“Easy now, Anders. No wolves here now, and Fenris is fine. No harm done.”

Wordlessly, Anders looked to the elf who nodded silently in reassurance. Hawke breathed a silent thanks to the Maker that after he'd explained to Cersei about Anders' fear of wolves, the werewolves had all either resumed human form or else slipped away from the cave so he would not panic when he awoke.

“And Kuriel?” asked Anders, after he'd regained his composure.

“Gone,” replied Fenris darkly.

“So we'll be out here for a while longer then till we find him,” replied Anders thoughtfully.

“We hadn't exactly planned that far ahead yet,” admitted Hawke.

“We haven't exactly _planned_ any of this, Hawke,” pointed out Varric; Hawke conceded the point with a rueful shrug.

“And the wolves?” added Anders tentatively, glancing at Fenris.

“They smelled my blood and knew me for one of them,” the elf rumbled quietly. “When they realised I had been captured by elves...well. How Kuriel escaped, I do not know.”

“But you're an elf,” pointed out Anders. Fenris smiled briefly.

“That had not escaped their notice,” he concurred. “But yet I am also one of them, wolf-blooded.”

“Where's Rivaini?” asked Varric suddenly, who had been squinting across the camp. “I haven't seen her in a while.”

“I haven't seen that big leader with the black hair for a while either, come to think of it,” remarked Hawke.

“Carodan,” replied Fenris. “The alpha.”

“Great,” groaned Anders. “I torch your rescuers, then Isabela runs off and shags their leader. Can things get any better?”

“Don't tempt Fate, Blondie,” warned Varric, wagging a finger sternly.

Fenris turned and merely raised an eyebrow at the dwarf, then turned and stared pointedly first at Anders, then at Hawke. Varric chuckled and conceded, “You have a point, Broody,” as both Anders and Hawke blinked then began objecting simultaneously.

They were still protesting innocence when Varric and Fenris chucked their sleeping rolls at them.

They'd both fallen quiet and asleep when Isabela returned much, much later.


	9. Chapter 9

There was tension the following dawn. As Anders slowly disentangled himself from the pile of furs and blankets, he could palpably feel the hostility in the air; something had changed. As he sat up and glanced around warily, he could soon see why.

Cersei, the “alpha female” of the pack, was squared up to Isabela, who stood with her arms folded and one eyebrow raised, projecting an air of bored defiance – if such a thing was possible. Fenris, Hawke, Varric and Carodan were talking nearby in low voices – Hawke gesticulating wildly, whilst the werewolf leader was a study in contrast, standing almost motionless as he stared down at the shorter human. Fenris was clearly discomforted, shifting his weight from foot to foot, occasionally lifting one to stare at the dusty sole before setting it down again; Anders could not recall ever having seen the elf quite so restless. Varric seemed to be trying to calm things down; Carodan appeared to be ignoring him, whilst the dwarf's words seemed to be having little effect on the rogue.

Glancing round the cave, Anders spied an older man with greying hair studying him from one eye. The man's skin was marked by recently-healed burn scars, and with a shiver the apostate suddenly realised that must be Wenfast, the wolf Justice had scorched. The man's expression was unreadable beneath the taut, shiny new-healed skin; Anders found he could not meet the man's gaze for long, and dropped his eyes to the dusty floor of the cave before turning away to straighten out his sleeping place. Pulling his Grey Warden blanket out of the pile, he quietly rolled it up and stowed it away in his pack, idly wondering who some of the other blankets belonged to. He tried not to think about wolves and possible fleas.

“You are a healer.”

Anders turned, startled, as a gruff voice spoke directly behind him. He barely managed to bite back a yelp as he came nose-to-nose with Wenfast; how in the name of Andraste's singed cunt-hairs had the man managed to sneak up upon him so silently?? The mage took an involuntary step back but the other man pressed closer. “Well?”

“I am,” nodded Anders, suddenly blurting out, “Your face – I'm truly sorry, I didn't mean... I thought Fenris was-”

Wenfast's lip curled slightly in a ghost of a snarl, and Anders fell instantly silent.

“Can you heal as well as you harm?”

“Better,” replied Anders quietly.

“Come with me.” Anders suddenly found his arm in a vice-like grip as the other man yanked him towards the back of the cave. Instinctively Anders tried to dig his heels in, avoid being dragged Maker-knows-where away from his friends and safety, but Wenfast had an incredible strength that belied his wiry frame beneath the tattered, scorched rags he wore. He shot Anders a glare from his single yellow eye as the tall apostate tried to resist, and suddenly Anders felt a wave of weakness sweep over him as he tasted the bitter tang of fear. Meekly he allowed himself to be led away.

Wenfast led him down a long twisting passage; it became dark and hard to see, but the werewolf seemed to have no problem finding his way down past outcroppings of sharp rock and through narrow doorways of stone. The second time Anders accidentally hit his forehead against an unexpectedly low lintel, the werewolf silently shoved the taller man in front, a clawed hand snarled in the apostate's dishevelled hair. Each time they came to a low doorway, Wenfast yanked Anders' head down out of the way, pulling him this way and that, forcing him ever onwards and down into the depths of the caverns.

“Is this really necessary?” Anders protested finally as the werewolf yanked his head back forcefully and manhandled him past a sharp spur of flint matrix that scraped painfully at his chest through his ragged clothing. The werewolf abruptly thrust him sprawling away; Anders stumbled then fell full length upon the ground in the darkness.

“I'm sure there must be easier ways for you to kill me,” the mage gasped, pushing himself up onto hands and knees, even as a small voice in his mind was screaming _what are you saying? Shut up shut up shut up!_

“I'm not going to kill you,” replied the husky voice behind him, which seemed to be coming from somewhere much closer to the ground – and closer to him – than he had expected. He looked over his shoulder then shrank back with a frightened whimper as a monstrous face – half-human, half-wolf, face twisted with horrendous burn scars which were somehow far, far worse for being on such a strange hybrid face, scorched & singed grey fur jutting stiffly out in small patches here and there, the skin shiny and taut over the burns elsewhere – was thrust close to his. So close, the hot, foetid breathe ghosted over his face, the rank stench assailing his nostrils as he pressed himself back against the rock wall until he could go no further.

“What's the matter, mage? Don't you like your own handiwork?” asked another voice from the shadows. There was the sound of a hooded lantern being unshuttered, and then Anders screamed as light flooded the small confined space and he could fully see the huge, ugly beast that hunched over him. Not human, not wolf, the whole body marred by burn scars, altogether like something out of his worst nightmares. He would almost rather have faced a broodmother all over again than face this thing that crouched over his fallen body, slavering jaws opening to reveal yellowed fangs as long as his fingers, razor-sharp, mere inches from his throat.

A part of his mind – the part not screaming in sheer raw terror – retained enough coherence to note he was somehow unsurprised that Kuriel should be here to witness his plight; had in fact very probably engineered it. That one of the werewolves had betrayed his own pack... well, that explained how Kuriel had escaped the werewolves' ambush.

He managed to pull his gaze away from those horrific teeth to stare at the Dalish elf, who smiled smugly. “You made this too easy,” remarked the elf. “Don't worry, I won't let him eat you... _yet_.”

“You seem pretty damned confident I won't fry his ass again and then yours right after,” Anders managed to stammer, his wavering voice giving the lie to his words. _Damn him, where was Justice when he_ _ **really**_ _needed him?_

“Without your staff? In close quarters such as these, you'd fry yourself as well. You'd have to be mad to try it. Or suicidal.” Kuriel stepped closer and crouched down next to the werewolf. “No, I think you'll lie just there and do as you're told. After all, Wenfast here is rather hungry and _very_ angry. You wouldn't want to anger him any further, would you?”

Anders shivered and closed his eyes as the teeth brushed his throat, nudging him back against the rock floor. “What do you want of me?” he whispered.

“Satisfaction,” replied Kuriel coldly. “Vengeance for the death of my brother, for my loss of status in the eyes of my tribe. And bait... for that white-haired abomination you seem so fond of.” He leaned in closer as Anders opened his eyes wide at mention of Fenris, and the Dalish elf smiled as he rested a hand against the burned flank of the werewolf that nuzzled open-mouthed against the vulnerable mage's neck. Anders shuddered, helpless, white-faced and terrified.

“Just wait until he sees what I'm going to do to you,” Kuriel whispered. “When I'm finished, you'll be begging for death... and I will make him be the one to give it to you.” He drew a silver dagger and turned it over in his hands, the blade catching the light as he brought it close to Anders' face before turning to the werewolf.

“Bite him.”

Anders screamed as the immense jaws closed over his throat.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mention of torture & non-con.

His scream was cut off as the jaws tightened about his throat, teeth driving into his fragile flesh like blunt knives, ripping and rending the skin. He felt hot wet blood flood over his neck and across his chest, splashing onto his face and pooling beneath him, soaking into his hair. The pain was like white hot fire.

He struggled, kicking at the werewolf as it sank its teeth deeper; he gasped futilely for breath that would not come. He reached inside to call upon magic even as waves of weakness rolled over him, the blood pumping unstemmed from severed arteries. He had perhaps seconds before the loss of blood to his brain would steal his consciousness; he pressed his hands against his ravaged throat and desperately threw healing magic into the wound even as he brought both feet up against the werewolf's chest and thrust back with a mighty effort.

He could feel Justice rising within him as his vision became hazy with blue spirit energy, and he knew his skin had split open with electric fire even as he continued to heal himself frantically. Flesh was knitting beneath his bloodstained fingers but the werewolf was back atop him in a flash.

Justice rose to meet it, a hand outstretched and wreathed in flame. There was a sudden flash of heat and light, and then the werewolf howled as its flesh and what remained of its fur caught alight. It leapt back, and then shrank away from the spirit-possessed mage as he sat up, one hand still pressed to his throat, the bleeding already stopped and the skin knitting together.

“ _YOU SHALL NOT HAVE HIM!_ ” Justice's voice boomed hollow and forbidding in the confined space as it turned baleful eyes on the elf, voice harsh as words were forced through barely-healed vocal cords.

“Nor shall you, demon,” hissed Kuriel, as he sank the silver dagger into the mage's stomach.

Justice opened its mouth to speak then paused, a look of confusion upon its face. “ _WHAT... WHAT HAVE YOU DONE...?_ ” it said, voice uncertain, as it stared down at the dagger. When the blond head lifted again, the blue gaze had faded to brown, and Anders slumped back against the rock with a gasp. “Oh Maker,” he breathed, white with shock as he reached for the handle of the blade. There was the hissing sound of scorching flesh, and he snatched back his hand with a cry then stared at the raw red welt across his palm.

The werewolf advanced towards him with a low growl; though dazed from pain, his guts screaming in agony, Anders lifted his hands in front of him to ward off the beast futilely. “No... no, please!” he begged as it crouched over him one more. His hands flew to his scarred throat as he threw Kuriel a panicked look. “You said he wouldn't kill me!”

“Wenfast,” said Kuriel in a warning tone. The werewolf glared at the elf through its one yellow eye – but incredibly, it backed down.

The elf crouched down beside the stricken mage. “How do you feel?” he asked, almost courteous in his tone. He laid a hand upon the hilt of the knife and then tapped it.

Anders threw back his head and screamed, writhing helplessly beneath the blade. He drew breath then screamed again as the burning pain intensified. It was as though someone had stabbed him then poured spider venom in the wound, burning like acid, pulsing and throbbing in time to his heartbeat. And he couldn't reach Justice. It felt like the spirit were somehow distracted, and there was... something else.

Something alien in his veins. He could feel it, spirit healer that he was; something spreading – though not from the knife wound. No, this came from the ruined scarred mess of his throat, barely knit together, the tissues swelling and inflamed, bruised and lacerated still. Something... inside him. And it was spreading.

His mind was befuddled by pain. He couldn't think straight. But something was wrong; very wrong. No longer was there the sense of himself merged with Justice – now, it felt as though Justice were somehow peeling away from his very psyche -

\- And there was something else present. Something alien.

“What... what have you done t-to me?” he managed to gasp past the agony, biting back a whimper as sweat beaded his brow. He felt somehow simultaneously like ice and fire; he was burning up, and yet the sweat that was sheeting off him felt like ice. And weak, so weak. He had lost too much blood. He had very little magic left to keep this strange alien presence within him at bay, even if he could think, could concentrate enough to call upon it.

“Interesting,” remarked Kuriel in a tone of idle curiosity. “Wenfast?”

“This is... abnormally fast,” the werewolf growled. “What is he? He shouldn't show signs for another two or three days if it has taken.”

“And if it hasn't?” replied Kuriel. In the shadows, the werewolf shrugged.

“Then they usually die.”

Anders whimpered as his hands curled around the blade, not quite daring to touch it. The pain was excruciating; it felt like tendrils of fire were snaking out from the blade through his feverish body, racked with chills and aches as the acid pain wormed its way along his limbs and up into his chest.

His body was a battleground, marshalling its meagre forces against the alien invader that flowed through his veins with his blood even as that strange alien touch seemed to encroach upon Anders' very mind, further driving him apart from Justice. He was no longer sure which was the more agonising: the pain in his body, or that within his mind as three entities fought for control of the body of the one known as Anders.

He was beginning to lose his own sense of self, as Justice and the alien presence fought for control of his mind. He was unaware as he lay there that he had begun to babble between the whimpers; fragments of words, half-articulated pleas. He was oblivious to all.

His world was pain.

Kuriel pushed himself to his feet. “How long before it's over do you think?” he asked.

Wenfast shrugged. “Four days. Maybe less for him.” He, too, rose to his feet, in human form once more.

“Bring him,” ordered the elf.

“Bring him yourself!” retorted the werewolf, his tone surly. Kuriel turned and glared at him; after a moment, the werewolf lowered his head submissively. Kuriel sneered, then turned and made his way deeper into the tunnels.

Wenfast reached down a large hand and grabbed the back of the semi-conscious apostate's collar then followed the elf, dragging Anders behind him as he darted a glare of hatred at the indifferent elf's back.

Anders was acutely aware of being moved; each jerk and bump as he was dragged along the dusty floor sent another wave of agony through him. He could only hang limply from the hand that held his collar, head lolling to one side, eyes glazed in pain as he longed for the darkness of oblivion – death, or unconsciousness, he wasn't sure he cared any more. But something kept him from that longed-for darkness. He hung in his own private hell, denied unconsciousness yet not fully awake or aware either. He was burning up. He knew he was gravely wounded; he was very, very sick.

He wished he could sleep. Or pass out. Oh, Maker, what hell was this? Was this what it meant to be infected by a werewolf? Was he infected? Would he survive this – would he _want_ to survive this?

Was this what Fenris had gone through?

Fenris....

As he sank down finally into dark, fevered dreams, Fenris' name was upon his lips, and the white-haired elf haunted his restless sleep, such as it was. Fenris in elf form, Fenris the wolf – sometimes comforting, often terrifying. He slipped in and out of consciousness, but the dreams seemed to pursue him no matter if he were awake or not. He could no longer tell. He did not know where he was; he was no longer sure _who_ he was. Even his own name was lost to him.

All was pain. In dreams, his body was in agony, burning up from the fever, rotting from the silver, changing and twisting it seemed from the corruption spreading insidiously within. In his brief moments of wakening, there was the pain of Kuriel's hands and blades upon him; silver needles driven beneath his nails, the blade twisted within his guts.

Other tortures too. He had hazy memories, fever-blurred; awaking to find his mouth being ravaged wantonly by the elf even as a searing pain told him that the werewolf-

 _No._ His mind shied away from all thought, all memory of that.

 _It did not happen_. Fever dreams. He could not tell what was real, what was dreams. What was truth, what was only the product of a fragmenting mind in a diseased body.

 _It was not real._ Nothing was real. Was he, any more?

Who was he?

Not Anders. Not Justice. But not yet something else.

Not quite.

He was not aware that his eyes were gold as he opened them to gaze uncomprehending at Kuriel as the elf swore at him. The blow to his cheek that snapped his head back painfully – that, too, he was not fully aware of. The conversations between the werewolf and his Dalish master washed over him meaninglessly; even as they spoke of someone named Fenris.

Fenris. Shouldn't that name mean something?

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

And then hands were stroking the damp hair back from his forehead, and when he opened his eyes a pair of warm green eyes were regarding him with concern from beneath dishevelled, blood-splattered white hair, and a husky voice was talking.

“Anders, can you hear me? Anders?”

The blond man smiled faintly. “Who is Anders?” he whispered in a voice rusty from disuse, cracked from screaming.

He did not understand why the green-eyed man was crying.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: details about the history of werewolves in Thedas were taken from the Dragon Age Wiki entry on Werewolves.

“Fenris?” Hawke was at the elf's side in moments, as he stared into the apostate's face. The blond man was regarding him with a quizzical look, the golden eyes still glazed from pain.

“Help me get him down,” said the elf, his voice rough with barely-checked emotion. “The cuffs are silver; I cannot touch them.”

“I'll hold him, you hew 'em?” suggested Hawke, stepping behind the wooden post to lift and support the mage. Fenris nodded and, stepping back, he swung the blade he had looted from one of Athenril's dead mercenaries overhead. The chains took several blows until they fell apart; the apostate cried out as each blow jarred the silver cuffs against his scarred wrists. Then finally the chains were severed. Hawke caught the tall man as he began to fall forward, no longer held upright upon his knees by his arms chained above his head.

“Hawke, the cuffs....”

The rogue nodded as Fenris moved to hold the mage, careful to avoid brushing the silver himself. After a brief moment of fiddling with his lockpicks, Hawke had the cuffs off and stowed safely in his pack – that much solid silver would fetch good coin once melted down into ingots.

Fenris drew in his breath with a hiss as he took in the state of the mage's wrists; bloody and raw, they looked burned in places. He lifted one of the mage's hands in his and swore furiously over the state of the slender hand – bruised, several fingers broken, some fingernails missing entirely, signs of something sharp and red-hot having been forced under others.

Hawke pulled aside the mage's ragged, bloodstained clothing – what there was of it – and began to swear himself. “He's been stabbed. It's infected, by the looks of it.” He turned and fished around in his pack for healing potions and poultices.

Fenris stared down at the semi-conscious man in his arms. “He doesn't know who we are,” he rumbled quietly. “He doesn't even remember his own name.”

Hawke paused in the act of uncorking a healing potion. “A side effect of the torture, you think?”

Fenris shrugged. “Pain can have strange effects upon the mind. Certainly, I have no memories myself of my life before Danarius gave me these lyrium brands.”

Hawke coaxed the mage to open his mouth; the blond man swallowed reflexively as the cool, viscous liquid trickled over his tongue. He pulled a face faintly, but drank the potion down.

“Do you think he will recover?” asked Hawke quietly. Fenris shrugged, the look in his eyes hopeless.

“I... do not know. Some do. I did... physically... but my memories?” He shook his head.

“Do you think... Justice...?” Hawke's voice was hushed. Fenris shrugged.

“I am... loath to cause him further pain, but... there is one way to test if the demon still resides within him,” replied the elf slowly. “But....” Fenris glanced up at Hawke, and there was a look of pleading in his emerald eyes. “Do not ask me to try. Not yet.”

Hawke nodded. “It's too soon. We need to get him to safety, somewhere where he can heal in peace.”

“You letting that bastard elf off, Hawke?” remarked Varric in surprise as he stomped over.

Fenris' face clouded over. “No, there will be a reckoning, I swear,” he said bitterly. “But for now, Anders needs help and healing more than we need revenge.”

“I think you'll find we'll have help,” replied Isabela as she sashayed over to join them. “The werewolves aren't taking the betrayal of one of their own too well right now. Kuriel had better hope we find him and that Wenfast fellow before they do.”

“I still don't get it,” sighed Varric, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly as he frowned. “Elves and werewolves hate each other – we know this. Particularly Kuriel. Why would he team up with one? It just makes no sense!”

“None of this does,” replied Hawke. “Anders here on his own like this, like bait for a trap – yet there's nothing here.”

“Perhaps the mage himself is the trap,” said Fenris slowly, staring down at the man in his arms. He gently put two fingers to the stubbled jaw, tilting it to one side to show the ragged scars across the throat. “He was bitten.”

There were muttered oaths and swearing from the other three.

“You mean-?” began Hawke. Fenris shrugged.

“He is like me? I cannot say. Certainly he is tainted, but he is also a Grey Warden and an abom-” Fenris broke off, swallowed hard. When he continued, his voice was husky with some emotion. “He harbours a demon inside him. Who knows what effect that would have on a lycanthropy infection?”

“Who would know?” asked Hawke. “The Dalish?”

“Perhaps,” replied Fenris. “They say the curse originally came from the Dalish. But would the Keeper Marethari aid a werewolf?”

“She's already done so once,” replied Hawke. “And Anders hasn't done anything to cause offence to her Clan. It was one of her people caused this to happen; maybe she'll help put it right.”

“I can only hope you are right,” replied Fenris.

“It's not like we have a lot of choice,” pointed out Varric. “Blondie doesn't look like he could make it back to the city.”

 

 

 

The werewolves were displeased that Hawke was set on taking Anders to the Dalish. Cersei, in particular, argued vehemently that they should leave Anders with the pack.

“He is one of us now!” she protested. “Outcast though he is now by his own actions, Wenfast was still one of us, and now by his actions so is your companion. Give him to us! We know how to heal one of our own!”

“Tell me, what do you know of mages bitten with the curse?” retorted Fenris. “Or Grey Wardens? Have you any idea what would happen?”

“There has never been a werewolf Grey Warden, nor yet a mage, to the best of my knowledge,” replied Carodan.

“There's probably a reason for that,” muttered Isabela. “A certain lack of survivability perhaps? Conflict of taints?”

Fenris glanced up in time to see Carodan and Cersei exchange a glance. “You know something!” he hissed accusingly. Carodan turned to the white-haired elf, his expression troubled.

“You will have seen, perhaps, that we are not like other werewolves,” he said slowly. “Like you, we do not lose our minds to the nature of the beast. We retain our thoughts, our intelligence. We do not know how, but we believe it may be because Cersei is the daughter of Witherfang, the First of us all. The blood of the Lady flows in her veins.”

Fenris and the others stared at Cersei uncomprehending.

“My mother... was the first of our kind,” said Cersei slowly. “A great unjustice was done both to the wolves and to the spirit of the forest when the elven Keeper Zathrian worked his magic upon her. Through her he unleashed the Curse upon the world. Men bitten by our kind would become wild, mindless beasts, driven to kill and to create more of our kind. But the Lady came among us, and restored to us our minds. When I was born, I was the first of us not to be created through the Curse but by an act of love. From me, the Lady's blessing flows; whilst they are near me, this pack retains their own minds.”

She gestured to the mage where he lay huddled in blankets near the fire. “If you take him from us, he may lose his mind. He may become as the wild beasts are. Give him to us and if he lives, he will be as we are – free-willed and free-thinking.”

“I am free-willed and free-thinking, and I am not of your pack,” growled Fenris. Cersei jerked her head around, startled.

“That is true. I do not know what you are,” she said quietly. “You are like us, and yet not. You smell like us, and yet not.”

“You say this curse was placed on your mother by an elven Keeper,” pressed Hawke. “Is that why you war against the elves? You think they can break the curse? Who – or what – is this Lady you speak of?”

“She is our Lady,” replied Carodan simply.

“The elves did us a great wrong, and only they may undo it,” said Cersei quietly. “But instead they make war upon us and seek to destroy us. I do not think the elves will help your friend.”

“They have aided me before,” replied Fenris, rising to his feet. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Truly? One of the Dalish willingly helped you? She knew what you are?”

“None less than the Keeper Marethari herself, of the Sabrae Clan who dwell on Sundermount,” replied the white-haired elf. “Kuriel was one of the elves of her clan. He transgressed the laws of his own people; by his actions he is as much a traitor to his own kind as Wenfast is.”

“Then her people have also done you and your friends a great wrong,” replied Cersei quietly. “And you think she would be honourable and seek to right this wrong, when no Dalish has ever done so before to our kind?”

“We think it is worth trying,” replied Hawke. “Keeper Marethari has always been honourable in her dealings with me. I trust her.”

Cersei stepped before him and stared up into his eyes. “You are either a very foolish man, or a very wise one,” she mused. “I cannot tell which.”

“Maybe both?” he suggested with a grin. She tilted her head upon one side, her expression grave.

“Perhaps,” she conceded. She turned away and rejoined Carodan on the other side of the fire.

“We cannot stop you taking your friend,” she told them quietly. “I do not think you will find what you seek amongst the Dalish, but we will give you supplies and what aid we can. We cannot set foot upon Sundermount ourselves, but we will see you at least part of the way there.”

Hawke bowed to the pair of leaders.

“Your friend will be welcome amongst our pack should he survive your endeavour and his wounds,” said Carodan.

“That won't be necessary,” said Hawke.

“We shall see,” replied Cersei.


	12. Chapter 12

Fenris took the last watch that night. Technically, whilst with the pack, they didn't _need_ to set watches; but none of their small party felt entirely safe leaving their protection solely to the werewolves.

It was shortly before dawn that he noticed the mage stirring. Fenris glanced over as Anders restlessly tossed his head back in his sleep, then jerked an arm free of his blankets with a small muffled cry. The mage's eyes were still closed, but a small frown creased his brow as he rolled onto his back and flung his arm above his head. As his broken fingers made contact with hard ground he yelped, eyes flying open as he sat up, cradling the injured hand to his chest. A brief flare of blue light lit up his haggard face as he hunched over.

“Anders?” said Fenris quietly, swiftly covering the ground between them with long strides. The mage looked up as the elf crouched down beside him.

“Your name is... Fenris, isn't it?” said the mage quietly. “I heard the blue-eyed man – Hawke? I heard him call you that.”

Fenris nodded. “Yes, I am Fenris,” he agreed. “He is Hawke, the dwarf is Varric, and the woman is Isabela. We are all your friends.”

“So you told me before,” replied Anders, “But I have no memory of it.” There was a faint note of frustration and bitterness in his voice. “I have to trust you. I have no other choice. I don't know who I am, where I am, how I got here.”

“You only remember the pain. Waking from it. Everything starting from agony, nothing from before.”

“Yes,” said Anders wonderingly. “You know. You understand. But how?”

In answer, Fenris let his brands flare briefly into life. “My memories begin with the moment this lyrium was burned into flesh. I began in pain, and it is the only constant in my life.”

“Who did that to you?” asked Anders in a hushed voice, staring in horrified fascination at the now-quiescent and dim silvery lines.

“My master. I was a slave in Tevinter,” replied Fenris.

“I don't know what I am,” replied Anders. “I mean, I'm obviously a mage of some sort. I seem to be a healer – but what else? You seem to know me. What kind of man am I? Why would I have been tortured like that?” He lowered his voice. “Was I, too, a slave?”

Fenris hesitated. “Of sorts,” he said slowly after a while. “But you lived as a free man. You are a healer. You run a small clinic in Darktown in Kirkwall, healing the poor people for free, hiding from the Templars.” He hesitated. How much should he tell him?

There had been no sign of the demon since they found Anders; no sign that Justice inhabited the apostate any longer. As the mage had slept, Fenris had phased his hand through Anders' chest; though the mage had stiffened and cried out faintly in his sleep, there had been no retaliation from the demon. It was as though he had departed the mage entirely – and taken all his memories with him.

Anders had the chance to start over; a new life, untainted by the demon, choosing his own path. He could leave his past behind, become who he truly should have been.But did Fenris have the right to withhold his past from him?

But if he began anew, then perhaps....

Anders was still watching him expectantly.

“You did nothing wrong. The one who took you... he was using you, but no, you were not his slave. You are... a good man. You are my... friend.”

Anders smiled in relief. “I was afraid to think what I could have done that I deserved pain like that,” he admitted. “I was beginning to think I must surely have been a blood mage and consorted with demons or something.” He frowned slightly. “Though the very idea... it repulses me.”

“You are not a blood mage,” said Fenris firmly. Anders visibly relaxed. Fenris rested a hand lightly upon the mage's wrist. “You are a healer – a very talented one.”

The mage smiled ruefully and gestured with his hand.

“Not that good though – some things it seems I just can't manage alone,” he replied. “I think I need help with this.” Fenris glanced at the outstretched hand.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked simply.

“I can't heal my fingers like this; they'll heal crooked. Can you- I mean, would you-”

Fenris frowned slightly. “Spit it out, mage,” he said quietly, a hint of irritation creeping unintentionally into his voice.

“I need you to straighten each one as I heal it,” said Anders.

The elf regarded him with a piercing gaze. “That will cause you significant pain,” he pointed out.

“It will,” agreed Anders. “But it has to be done. I could take a potion to knock myself out and leave it to someone else to set them – but this way, I can make sure they heal quickly with no complications. Besides,” he added quietly, “It can't hurt any worse than some of the other things they did to me.”

Fenris glanced up from beneath his white hair, and his emerald eyes were full of understanding.

“We should go a little way away from the camp lest you disturb the others,” he suggested.

Anders nodded. Wrapping a blanket around his shoulders to ward off the chill early morning air as they moved away from the camp fire, towards the entrance to the werewolf lair, he followed the elf a little way away from the cave mouth, down a slope and onto the sandy beach. They made their way a little way along the shore, the elf gathering driftwood as they went. In a sheltered spot near some rocks, Fenris built a small fire which Anders set ablaze with a brief burst of magic that sent a delicious shivery thrill through the surface of Fenris' skin, tugging alluringly at the lyrium within his flesh.

Shaking off the feeling, Fenris unbuckled his narrow leather belt as Anders settled himself down comfortably with his back against the rocks. Doubling it over, he proffered it to Anders. “Bite upon this,” he suggested.

Anders nodded understanding and set the thick leather between his teeth before taking a deep breath then holding out his right hand to the elf. Fenris seated himself against Anders, his back against Anders' chest, the mage's right arm tucked under the elf's right arm as he grasped the slender wrist firmly and took hold of the first broken digit with his other hand.

“On three,” suggested Fenris. “One, two...”

There was a sickening crunch as he pulled and straightened the finger; Anders gave a muffled scream and Fenris was forced to brace himself against the mage's involuntary jerk before that tugging, electric feeling raced through his lyrium like a siren's call again and the blue nimbus glow of Anders' healing magic enveloped the injured digit, knitting together broken ends of bone and binding it whole once more.

Anders slumped as the glow faded, panting heavily. After a few minutes, he regained his composure and patted the elf awkwardly on the shoulder to let him know he was ready for the next one.

It was a slow, painful business, and before long Fenris could feel Anders' shirt soak through with sweat. The mage was flagging by the time they had finished the first hand; his breath was little more than ragged gasps between whimpers uttered around the wet leather clenched between his teeth, and between each finger he rested his damp forehead against Fenris' shoulder.

Fenris turned to glance at the apostate as he reached for the other hand, and the state of Anders made him pause. The man looked utterly ghastly; face clammy and grey beneath a sheen of sweat, eyes glazed in pain and exhaustion, expression haggard. His breathing was laboured.

“Anders, we can stop – do the other hand later,” suggested Fenris. Anders shook his head.

“If I leave it any longer, they'll start to heal crooked, and you won't merely have to straighten them – you'd have to break them again first,” he said hoarsely. “Trust me – this is actually easier to bear than that would be.” But his hand trembled as he held it out to the elf.

Fenris took it gently, stroking the back of Anders' hand with his thumb. Then he glanced up. “Ready?” he asked quietly. Wearily, Anders nodded and braced himself as Fenris took a firm hold.

When it was over, Anders lay back against the rock, utterly spent, gasping, his heart racing from the effort, adrenaline and pain. Fenris took the wet leather from the slack jaws, then took up the blanket and gently wiped away the sweat and drool from the exhausted mage's face with its hem before gently folding the mage's arms across his chest then wrapping the blanket warmly around Anders, who was shivering in spite of the early morning sun that now bathed their sheltered spot upon the beach.

“Anders?” he asked quietly. The mage opened his golden eyes with difficult, but he smiled tiredly at the elf.

“Thank you, Fenris,” he murmured.

Almost without thinking, Fenris lifted a hand to cup the other man's cheek. With a faint sigh, Anders turned his face a little into the touch.

 _Could it be this simple?_ wondered the elf. He leaned closer, his lips parted as his own breath came more haltingly, his own heart strangely racing.

 _So close_. Anders' breath ghosted over his face, warm and sweet. Fenris was transfixed by his pale lips, slightly parted, warm and inviting. _Closer_.

He lifted his eyes from the mage's lips to find languid golden eyes regarding him drowsily as the mage drifted in the fuzzy haze that followed a long, difficult healing, borne on a pleasant cloud of endorphins.

_No. He is not himself. I cannot...._

“Fenris?” breathed Anders. “Is this... are we...?”

Fenris groaned, and pressed his forehead against Anders', dropping his gaze briefly to those soft, inviting lips before closing his eyes.

“We should go back,” he heard himself say as he reluctantly pulled himself away from the mage. Anders stared at him in confused bewilderment as a faint sound of protest escaped his lips.

“I don't understand,” he said. “Did I...”

“No!” said the elf. “You did nothing. I....” He turned away, clenching his fists, his emotions in turmoil within him.

“I don't understand,” whispered Anders.

“Nor do I,” admitted Fenris. “I... cannot, I....”

Anders struggled to his feet, still wrapped in the blanket. He stared at the elf, not comprehending what was going on. Finally his shoulders slumped. “You're right, we should go back,” he said dully. He began to make his way past the elf, eyes downcast.

Fenris watched him in an agony of indecision.

_Kiss him. Kiss him, you damned fool!_

He kicked sand over the fire, then slowly followed the apostate back towards the cave.

_Fool. I am a damned fool._


	13. Chapter 13

The mage made his way slowly back up the beach towards the cave, his mind awhirl with confusion.

Though he had no memory of the elf – Fenris, he reminded himself – it was obvious there was _something_ between them; he could not deny that he had felt the thrill of a strange chemistry between them from the moment Fenris first spoke. The way he behaved around the mage, he would have to be blind not to see that the elf was attracted to him – and as far as the apostate was concerned, the feeling was very much mutual. Fenris said they were friends; his behaviour said they were something more.

So why did they come so close just now, only for the elf to pull away?

Surely Fenris must have seen that he was more than willing for the elf to take things further. His body language (not to mention the uncomfortable tightness of his pants thanks to the elf's close proximity during the healing) must have made his attraction obvious, surely? And he could tell from the way the elf's pupils dilated, his breathing quickening, that Fenris wanted it too. If the warrior had decided to take the apostate right there and then on the beach, he would have found the blond man more than willing.

Did he do something wrong? Fenris had said no, and yet the mage could not help but feel rejected and like he'd taken a misstep somehow.

His hands still hurt appallingly, but it was bearable, and he knew it would soon pass. The wound in his abdomen still needed attention however, and he didn't think the sheen of sweat still covering his skin was entirely due to the exertion of healing or the close encounter with Fenris.

People were stirring as he returned to his bedroll beside the fire. Despite the sweat, he felt chilled, and he huddled into the blanket as he sat down. The Rivaini pirate made her way around the fire with something hot and steaming in a mug which she set down beside him before hunkering down companionably next to him. He took the mug gratefully with stiff hands and nodded his thanks, sipping slowly at the hot tea.

“You're looking a lot better this morning,” she remarked.

“Did I look that bad yesterday then?” he replied lightly. She snorted.

“Worse. Like something Hawke's mabari dragged in backwards through a hedge after a month in a ditch somewhere.”

“That good, huh?” replied the mage with a wry smile. He took another warming mouthful of the tea, then set it carefully down before pulling open the blanket and lifting up the ragged hem of his shirt to inspect the wound.

It still needed healing; the edges were only barely knitted together, the edges red and inflamed. The healing potions Hawke and the others had forced down his throat upon returning to camp had done most of the lifesaving work, but the mage could feel the infection that would slowly spread if left unchecked. Placing his hands over the scarring, he concentrated and started to direct healing magic into the wound.

“Well, there's a long face,” observed the pirate drily, nodding towards Fenris as the elf stomped into the cave, making his way towards the back and away from other people. He was scowling darkly.

“I swear, Fenris could curdle the milk in a cow just by looking at it sometimes,” she remarked, then glanced at him sidelong as though expecting him to reply. He remained silent however, concentrating on seeking out and eliminating the last traces of infection. The slight fever might linger a few more hours, but finally he was satisfied that the infection itself was dead and purged. As he lifted his hands away from his skin, they revealed a smooth, pale scar where the wound had been. He let his shirt drop, and reached for the mug once again.

“You're... different,” remarked the Rivaini pirate.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Quieter. Not as angry as before, but... Withdrawn.”

“I have no idea what I was like... before,” he replied quietly. “Right now, I don't really have a lot to say. There's a lot to take in. It's like I'm a blank slate, just learning who I am. Who my friends are. What I'm doing here.”

“And is it just Anders in there?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow. He blinked.

“What do you mean?” he asked, a small frown creasing his brow. “Who else would I be? Some abomination perhaps? I think you'd have noticed by now if that were the case – a certain lack of monstrous appearance, absolutely zero bloodthirsty rampaging – oh, and no blood magic.” He held out his arms, pushing back his sleeves. “I have scars aplenty – I've obviously seen plenty of fights – but none of them are self-inflicted; I can see that quite clearly.”

The pirate admired his toned arms openly and appreciatively, running a hand up his forearm then up over his bicep, pushing the shirt out of the way to reveal a griffon tattoo upon his right shoulder. “This ring any bells?” she suggested.

He stared at the tattoo, eyes widening. “I'm... a Grey Warden?” He stood up and pulled the shirt off over his head then held out his arm, twisting it so he could better see the griffon indelibly inked into the flesh. “Andraste's flaming knickerweasels, I'm a _Grey Warden??_ ”

“Ah. You didn't remember that bit either then?” replied the pirate. “Which means you don't remember the Pearl, the Lay Warden, or me either?” She gave him a little mock pout.

“I told you-”

“-Isabela,” she prompted.

“-Isabela,” he nodded, “I don't remember anything! I'm obviously a mage, and equally bloody obviously an apostate – but beyond that, I remember _nothing!_ Not even my own name! I don't remember you, or Fenris, or Hawke, or anyone else – and I certainly don't remember being a Grey Warden!” He put his hands to his head, clutching at his hair as he stared around wildly. “What else don't I remember? Who am I? _What_ am I?”

“Anders-” began Isabela, stepping towards him with one hand outstretched. He backed away from her.

“Who am I? _Tell me!!_ ” he shouted.

The pack was stirring restlessly all around them, all eyes on the mage as he turned around in a circle, desperately trying to make sense of everything. Hawke was pushing his way through the group, Varric following in his wake, Cersei and Carodan a step behind. As he turned to face Isabela again, the look of pity in her eyes struck him forcefully like a slap.

“What aren't you telling me?” he said, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “There's more, isn't there? Not just an apostate, not just a Grey Warden. There's something else, isn't there?”

“We don't know,” said another voice. The mage spun round as Fenris stepped out from the shadows into the firelight.

“What do you mean, you don't know?” he demanded. Fenris glanced to Hawke, both men loath to be the one to speak. Behind him, Isabela shifted slightly, uneasily.

“You _do_ know,” breathed the apostate, staring at first Hawke, then Fenris, before his gaze roved over Varric and then Isabela. “All of you. And it's something terrible, so terrible you're actually afraid to tell me.”

“Hawke, he _has_ to know,” said Varric quietly. Hawke nodded, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Fenris stepped forward.

“You were... an abomination,” he said quietly. “During your time with the Wardens, you took a... a spirit of Justice into yourself. You-”

“No,” whispered the blond man brokenly. “No, no, that's not true. That _can't_ be true. That's not possible. I'm not a blood mage. I'm not an abomination!”

“Anders,” said Fenris, stepping towards the mage.

“I'm _not an abomination!!”_ screamed Anders, before turning and fleeing from the cave.

Fenris sighed.

“No. You're not. Not anymore.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Cypheroftyr. ;-)

He fled from the cave, running blind, not caring where he was going; only knowing that he had to get _out_ , get _away_ , escape their pitying eyes, voices, words.

It was a lie. It _had_ to be. He couldn't be an abomination. They were wrong.

His mind was racing, thoughts crowding in thick and fast atop shock, disbelief, terror, anger and sheer bewilderment, even as his bare feet pushed him onwards, long legs covering the ground swiftly as he followed the dusty path downwards, heading back towards the beach again for lack of anywhere else to go.

He stumbled a little as the ground underfoot changed from dusty path to soft sand, his feet sinking in slightly, the sand relinquishing each foot reluctantly as he pressed on until he reached the edge of the surf, the hard-packed wet sand giving his feet better grip to push off from. He ran on until the weight of the water against his legs slowed him down, the cold slap of salt spray against his groin serving to shock him back into awareness. He waded out further, until the chill waves lapped at his waist, and then he threw back his head and let out a hoarse, ragged cry that tailed off brokenly, echoing off the rocky cliff faces around the sheltered cove. Then he wrapped his arms around himself and dropped to his knees in the water. Wavelets lapped around his scarred throat as he stared blankly out at the horizon.

“It isn't true. It _isn't true,_ ” he whispered to himself disbelievingly. He would know if he were possessed, surely? He should be able to feel something. Or was this how it felt to be under the control of a demon – did it lurk within his thoughts so deeply that he would never know until finally it took control of his body, transforming him into a monster?

Were these even his thoughts? Was there any way to know?

But he'd passed his Harrowing. He didn't know how he knew this, only that it was true; he had faced demons in the Fade and emerged the victor, unscathed, mind and soul intact. He knew he had faced demons before. He surely would know the touch, the signs, were he possessed.

Wouldn't he?

He knew, too, that he had encountered possessed mages – true abominations – at some point in the past; he knew the feel of their warped and twisted bodies through his magic as he had fought them, his spirit healer's soul recoiling from the foul taint of demonic corruption that even from a distance he could sense, even before their forms warped and twisted physically into monsters and creatures from nightmare. There was nothing like that within him. He would have known.

The water was freezing cold this early in the morning. The cold bit through the scant protection of his thin linen shirt, numbing him. He welcomed the numbness; he only wished it would numb his mind as well.

He covered his face with his hands and moaned. Closing his eyes, he reached inside, letting the magic flow through his body, letting him “see” by magic what his own eyes could not as he reached all through himself.

And what he found had him reeling in shock. His blood... was not human. Not entirely.

He found the unmistakable taint of darkspawn lacing through his body, and bound to it was something else; something alien. It didn't _feel_ like a demon, and yet it was unmistakably inhuman. Sending his consciousness deeper, sinking into the blood, following it down to the macro level, he found....

Wolf. And yet not wolf. Wolf bound with... something else. Both intrinsically bound within him so minutely that he could barely tell where they ended and he began, each somehow neutralising the other.

There was a sensation of malice from the one, outrage and fury from the other; both entities – for lack of a better word – possessed of some form of awareness, but one that was focussed utterly upon the complete annihilation of the other. Both seemed oblivious to him as he probed these unseen passengers within his flesh, his very psyche itself. The malice – that was from the lupine spirit; the anger – that came from the other, strange presence – one that he found had laced tendrils of its essence all through his flesh. Through it he could feel the undeniable pull of the Fade, as though part of the Fade itself had become imbued within his flesh. It did not _feel_ demonic, and yet nor did it seem benign; there was an inexorable sense of purpose to the entity that terrified the mage in its determination and coldness. Whatever this being was, it was very much a part of him – and it would stop at nothing to achieve its aims once it had freed itself of the lupine spirit that was coiled about his very core, tethered within his blood. And both entities were being subtly affected, poisoned by the darkspawn taint that he knew without knowing was the unspoken proof without a shadow of a doubt that he was, indeed, a Grey Warden.

Horrified and yet fascinated, he delved deeper, unaware that he was sinking further into the water, slumping until he began to slip beneath the waves. All his focus was deep within, only tangentially aware of the encroaching effects of hypoxia until he felt consciousness flickering, fading; only then did he become aware of the danger....

... a hand plunged through the water, grasping a firm hold of his blond hair as it floated loose in the waves, fanning out around his face beneath the water. There was a wrenching, tugging at his scalp, and then his face broke the surface and he was gasping, coughing and spluttering, arms flailing through air and water as strong, warm arms enfolded him and lifted him from what was so very nearly his watery grave into a firm embrace. He flung his wet arms about his saviour's neck, shivering violently as he was carried back to shore; the early morning breeze knifed through his wet shirt and leggings, and he huddled against warm brown skin swirled with silver.

“F-f-f-enr-r-ris?” he managed, forcing the syllables between chattering teeth.

“Hush, mage,” answered the elf as he carried the apostate swiftly through the surf back to the beach; his tone was soft but neutral. The apostate glanced up; Fenris stared ahead, concentrating on keeping his footing as he made his way up onto the shifting sands. He did not stop until he had carried Anders up onto the soft, dry sand, in the lee of an outcropping of rock which provided shelter from the stiff breeze. He set the mage down gently upon the sand then reached for a blanket tossed nearby.

“Y-you f-f-ffollowed-”

“Yes, I followed you,” nodded the elf evenly as he tugged at the wet shirt and stripped it efficiently from Anders' wet, chilled skin before rubbing him down briskly with the blanket. Anders was too frozen to do much other than stand there numbly, shivering uncontrollably, as the elf stripped off his soaking leggings and smalls before rubbing the rest of him down briskly. Throwing the wet blanket aside, he grabbed a second, dry one and wrapped it around the naked mage before pushing him down to sit upon the sand.

“Stay there,” he ordered Anders before walking off. A few minutes later he returned with an armful of hastily-gathered driftwood and dry seaweed, which he threw down onto the sand and rapidly assembled into a fire. “Can you light it?” he asked.

In answer, Anders gestured with a shaking hand, and the fire burst into life. Nodding approvingly, Fenris settled himself down behind Anders. Pulling the blanket away briefly, he pulled the mage firmly against himself then wrapped them both in the blanket. Confused, Anders tried to pull away with a small noise of protest but Fenris held him firmly.

“You are chilled. Skin to skin will warm you far faster than merely sitting shivering by the fire. You know this,” pointed out the elf. The apostate subsided and instead huddled against the warrior's warm skin.

Fenris sat in silence, holding the shivering mage in a firm yet gentle embrace, the heat of his body helping to drive away the chills that racked Anders' body in brief paroxysms of shivering until finally they subsided and he began to relax, letting his body rest against the contours of the elf's body, head resting upon Fenris' smooth, strong shoulder.

“Anders?” he ventured quietly.

“Thank you,” said the apostate in a voice scarce much above a whisper.

“Anders, are you...”

“You were right,” said the mage, turning his face towards the elf's shoulder. “I feel it, inside. It's a part of me. What is it? It's like a demon, and yet not.”

“It was a Fade spirit. Justice. It was trapped outside the Fade.”

“And I took it into myself?”

Fenris nodded. “I don't know all the details; only that you considered this spirit – this Justice – to be a friend.”

“I am an abomination.” He said it simply, a statement of fact. Fenris bit his lip, staring down at the damp blond head which was bowed, and then he nodded. “Yes. Technically, you were.”

Anders shook his head. “Still am. I can feel it. It's fighting something.” He glanced up at Fenris, and touched a hand to the scars around his throat. “I was bitten by a werewolf, wasn't I? I'm infected. The corruption... it's all through my blood. That and the darkspawn taint.” He lowered his head. “Maybe you should have let me drown,” he said bitterly.

Fenris' arms tightened involuntarily about the mage, though the blond man had made no move to get up or turn away. “No,” he said softly.

Anders slowly lifted his head, the golden eyes bright with tears. “Why is this happening to me?” he whispered as they began to spill down his cheeks. “Tell me who I really am. Please.”

Fenris cupped Anders' cheek with a gentle hand, rubbing away the tears with his thumb. “You are Anders,” he said simply. “You are an apostate mage from the Anderfels. You ran away from the Circle seven times; and the seventh time, you were conscripted by the Grey Wardens. You fought at Ostagar, beside the Champion of Ferelden.”

He leaned closer until his breath ghosted over Anders' lips. “I met you in Kirkwall, when I hired Hawke to deal with slavers from Tevinter who were upon my trail, seeking to drag me back to my former master, Danarius. We were not friends at first, you and I; you were fighting for the cause of mages, and I had suffered too much at the hands of magisters to be sympathetic to their plight.” Fenris sighed. “I was a fool. We were more alike than I could have dreamed, in our own ways. And you did much that was admirable. You risked your own life and liberty to free mages. You built a clinic – a place of sanctuary and healing, where you treated all who needed it in the slums of Darktown. I could not help but at least respect you even whilst we argued and fought.

“And then you discovered my secret.”

Anders stared up into his eyes, silent, his expression one of curiosity.

“I... am also a werewolf,” admitted Fenris.

The mage stiffened. “I never harmed you!” Fenris added hastily. “I would never hurt you. And though you discovered my true nature, you did not give it away to anyone else – not even Hawke. You kept it to yourself. And despite your fear of me, you placed yourself in harm's way to protect me when Dalish hunters discovered what I was and sought to slay me. I owe you my life.”

“You make it sound almost romantic,” mused Anders softly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards into a half-smile.

“Perhaps,” conceded Fenris. “No doubt it would be, if Varric were writing the tale.”

“Was there... Fenris, did you and I....”

The elf looked down at him sadly and shook his head. “No. I... allowed my fears to get the better of me. I regret that.”

“Then... when you almost kissed me earlier...?”

“You are not yourself. It would not be fair to take advantage of you in this state.”

“Maybe I _want_ you to,” replied Anders, regarding him from beneath lowered lashes.

“That would not be fair.”

“Damn what would or would not be fair!” snapped Anders. “I don't understand the half of what's going on, I remember nothing before waking up in agony a day ago – all I know is what you've told me and what I feel right now; and Maker damn me but I _know_ you feel the same way!” he added heatedly.

“Mage-” began Fenris, but was cut off as Anders lifted his face towards him, their lips practically brushing.

“Kiss me, damn you,” growled Anders.

Fenris hesitated.

With a cry of frustration, Anders threw off the blanket and wrenched himself free of Fenris' grasp, rising to his feet and turning away. He took barely two steps before Fenris uncoiled from his reclining position, pinning the blond apostate's arms to his sides as he engulfed him in a bear hug from behind, and bringing them both tumbling to the ground. Anders writhed beneath him, twisting round, eyes flashing in fury as Fenris grasped his slender wrists in his powerful grip and slammed them to the ground above Anders' head.

“Damn you, Fenris, what do you want-” he snarled but got no further as the elf kissed him hard. For a moment he resisted, lips tensed against Fenris' darting tongue, before abruptly relaxing and parting with a breathless whimper, surrendering to the warrior as his eyes fluttered closed and his stiff body became pliant and soft, unresisting beneath Fenris. He moaned, low and needy, as the elf's tongue plundered and ravaged his mouth, allowing himself to be claimed thoroughly as Fenris encircled both his wrists with one hand, freeing his other hand to reach down between their bodies to cup the mage's balls, squeezing gently.

Anders moaned and threw back his head, breaking the kiss as his back arched, thrusting his groin up into the elf's grasp. Fenris dipped his head to nip and bite at the apostate's throat. “I want you,” he growled to the writhing body beneath him. “I have wanted you for so long. I want you - _all_ of you.”

Anders' eyes fluttered open, the pupils wide and dark against the golden irises as he stared up into the elf's face. “I want you too,” he breathed huskily.

“Are you sure?” asked Fenris quietly, pausing to draw back slightly. “Is this what you truly want?”

“Yes,” Anders gasped, his breath hitching in his chest. “Oh Maker, yes.”

Fenris stared into his eyes for several moments, then bent down and claimed the warm, inviting mouth once again with his own.

_No more regrets._

He fought the urge to sink his teeth into that ravaged and scarred throat, instead laving it with light, loving kisses that trailed along Anders' jaw, nipping only lightly and playfully at the mage's bottom lip as the mage groaned, flexing his wrists ineffectively against Fenris' restraining hand. The other hand fondled the mage's balls before sliding further back to stroke gently around his entrance. Anders drew up his knees and let them fall apart, opening himself to Fenris.

The elf wanted to take him there and then; rough, hard, ride him screaming into his own climax. Instead, he trailed kisses down the pale skin of Anders' torso and across the healing scar over his abdomen as he released the mage's wrists; down the inside curve of his thigh as shifted back, licking and kissing around the base of his shaft before parting his cheeks with his hands and lapping at the tight, puckered entrance.

Anders' back arched off the sand as he cried out wordlessly, his voice cracked and husky as his hips involuntarily jerked, erection twitching. Fenris smiled and licked him again, trailing his tongue slowly up the crack before probing Anders' entrance. The mage shuddered and moaned, tossing his head from side to side as the elf's tongue slid into him, hot and wet, invading him in the most intimate way possible as Anders slowly came utterly undone, helpless under the elf's ministrations.

Fenris thrust his tongue deep into Anders and then curled it inside him, and Anders cried out, his body shuddering. Withdrawing with exquisite slowness that had the mage panting and writhing, begging wordlessly, Fenris licked his first two fingers of his left hand then slowly, deftly slid them into Anders' waiting body. Anders lifted his hips to meet the thrust, canting them so the elf's touch could reach all the more deeply inside him.

Fenris reached up and caught Anders' hand in his free hand. “Grease,” he commanded. Anders blinked uncomprehendingly, and Fenris repeated the command a second time before comprehension dawned in the fevered, glazed eyes. There was a surge of magic which drew forth an answering flare of lyrium from his brands; a clear oily liquid filled then spilled from Fenris' palm even as Anders' body responded to the pulse of lyrium along Fenris' fingers deep inside him. The mage threw back his head, moaning wantonly as he ground down upon the elf's hand. Fenris scissored his fingers deep inside Anders, opening him up and stretching him as he freed his own member, slicking it thoroughly. Sliding his fingers out of Anders' body – to the mage's wordless protests – he replaced them with the greased fingers of his other hand, thrusting them steadily in and out of the apostate's body, each thrust opening him further as he pushed deeper until finally he was ready.

Pulling his fingers free, he slid his hands under the mage's thighs, opening his legs wider as he lined his member up with Anders' warm, inviting entrance; then with one smooth push he thrust deeply into the mage's body. He felt Anders clench firmly around him, and he groaned his own arousal and pleasure as he began to pump in and out of the mage's willing, compliant body, building up to a steady rhythm. Anders was gasping, half-articulated please and throaty cries as his body jerked spasmodically beneath the elf. He almost screamed when Fenris curled one fist around his cock; with a few swift, firm strokes the elf brought the mage rapidly to the brink of climax; and as Fenris thrust deep into his body Anders finally tumbled over the edge, crying out almost soundlessly as he climaxed hard into the elf's hand. A few thrusts later, the elf followed him over the edge. He collapsed atop the mage, both men panting and gasping, sheened in sweat as their hearts raced.

_No regrets._


	15. Chapter 15

“Andraste's flaming knickerweasels, whose idea was it to shag on a beach?” Anders winced. “I have sand in the most unmentionable places.”

“Then don't mention them,” replied Fenris unperturbed as he picked up the blankets.

“Oh hah, hah,” remarked Anders in a sarcastic tone as he shook the sand out of his shirt. “It bloody itches, I tell you! I'm going to be walking bow-legged for a week!”

“Mage, if you don't shut up, I'll do something that will ensure you cannot even sit down for a week. Much less walk.”

“You – oh Maker, don't even joke about such things!” groaned Anders. Fenris arched an eyebrow.

“Who said I was joking, mage?”

Anders paused in the act of pulling on his shirt and stared at the elf, who cocked his head to one side and folded his arms, regarding the apostate calmly. Anders' eyes slowly widened, and then his smile followed suit – until the elf threw the damp blanket at his face.

“Get dressed, mage,” remarked the elf as he shook out the dry blanket then began to fold it.

Anders threw the damp towel down then pulled the shirt on before turning to kick sand over the dying fire. Sunshine bathed the small cove in warmth; he turned and tilted his face up towards the sun, closing his eyes and enjoying the quiet moment.

Fenris stepped up behind the apostate, slipping an arm around his slender waist and resting his forehead against Anders' back. “How are you feeling now?” he asked quietly. “Beyond itchy.”

“I... don't know,” admitted Anders. “Like I just got sat on by a dragon, mentally. Physically....” He stretched, spine popping as he arched it backwards slightly. He winced at the crunching sensation as he rolled his shoulders. “About as good as I get, I guess,” he remarked.

“You are too tall,” complained the elf, stepping away to pick up the damp blanket.

“Says the elf who is taller than any other elf I've ever encountered,” replied Anders, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And how many elves do you remember to draw such a comparison to?” riposted Fenris.

“Well, Zevran was-” Anders broke off, and put a hand to his forehead in shock as he stumbled. “Zevran. I remember....” His eyes widened as the colour began to drain from his face.

“Anders?” said Fenris, dropping the blankets and stepping swiftly to Anders' side, steadying him with a hand to his arm.

“Memories... fragments....” murmured Anders. “Zevran. Oghren, Nathaniel -” He lifted his head and glanced wildly around the beach as though he expected old companions to step into sight. “Pounce. My cat! Where is my cat??”

“Your... cat?” Fenris suddenly remembered. “You had a cat in the Wardens.”

“Ser Pounce-a-lot!” nodded Anders. “Where-”

“Anders, you left the Wardens years ago. You... complained they would not let you keep your cat.” Fenris felt a pang of guilt as he watched Anders' face fall.

“Oh.” He lowered his head, putting one hand to his face. “Oh. Yes. I remember now....” He lifted his head, eyes darting around the small cove, gaze abstract as though seeing something beyond the small sandy beach and stone cliffs. “I remember,” he whispered. Though the cove was warm in the sunshine, he shivered suddenly.

“Mage?” said Fenris quietly. “Anders?”

The apostate pulled away from him, stumbling a few paces down the beach towards the sea, fists clenching at his sides. “It's coming back to me,” he murmured distractedly. “So many memories... too much....” He lifted his hands, staring at them as he turned them over slowly, as though seeing them for the first time before staring down at himself, then out at the waves.

“Anders.”

The mage spun around to stare at the elf, and something in his gaze checked the warrior.

“You.” Anders regarded him strangely, lifting a hand to point at him. “You keep away from me.”

 _Fasta vass._ What had the mage remembered? What past passing cruel remark of his had returned in the flood of returning memory to haunt him now?

“Anders, what-” asked Fenris quietly as he stepped forward; he halted as Anders flung up a hand in warning.

“Stop! Stay where you are! Don't come any closer!”

“I will not harm you, Anders,” Fenris promised in the most reassuring tones he could muster. Anders threw his head back and laughed harshly.

“You expect me to believe that? After the things you've said about me? After the things I've seen you do?” He backed away, and the wary look turned to one of horror. “I remember. I remember what you are, what you've....Oh Maker. I let you-” He reeled away and began to run, away from the elf, away from everything.

Fenris watched him flee, shifting restlessly from foot to foot in an agony of indecision. Then with a look of determination he dropped to the warm sand.

The white wolf streaked away across the sands, following inerrantly the fleeing mage.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

 _So many memories. A maelstrom of confusing images, voices, emotions; the past overlaying the present – everything out of place, disjointed._ Anders' long strides carried him swiftly through the sand dunes and up onto the dusty path, angling away from the beach. The path back to the werewolves' lair lay to his left, but he ignored it, instead letting his feet take him along the coast road, farther away from Kirkwall.

Images were overlaid on his vision; faces half-remembered, snatches of voices drifting in and out of hearing from companions distant in time. Nothing made sense.

_Fenris standing over a slaver. Fenris standing over a blood mage, her heart's blood dripping from his hands. Turning towards him, face overlaid by_

_the Templar who smiles darkly and reaches towards him_

_as Sigrun grunts in pain; he can't reach her in time before the Broodmother_

_lashes out and he's flying through the air, Hawke's voice screaming his name strangely dim over the ringing in his ears_

_a soft chime calling the apprentices to the dining hall but something's wrong, where is_

_Fenris touching him, moving inside him, breath ghosting over Anders' skin as he thrusts_

_deep inside, and it hurts, hurts more than he could have dreamed possible as the Templar laughs_

_low throaty just behind him as Isabela slides her arms around him then bites his ear, distracting him before_

_Nathaniel spares him a brief grin, “Watch your footing, Anders!” then turns away as_

_Justice holds out his hand and_

_the silver blade drives into his guts_

he staggered, reeling, his shoulder slamming into the rock face beside the path as he clutched his head. “No... enough... I can't....” Head pounding, heart racing, lost in a whirlwind of memories and hallucinations, he pushed himself away from the sun-warmed stone, staggering onwards, unaware of eyes watching him.

On, on, away – to where? It didn't matter. No matter how far or fast he ran, he couldn't escape the onslaught of memory. Mind fragmenting under the relentless beat of insistent fragments of his past.

“ _Anders.”_ He squinted past the bright sunshine.

“F-Father?”

_No. Loghain, armour rent and twisted, spattered with blood, greasy black hair lank and caked in dirt and blood. “Come. We haven't much time.”_

“You're dead. I saw you die. The Archdemon....”

“ _This body decays. It will not last. Yield yourself to me, to my power.”_ _Justice holding out Kristoff's rotting hand._ Anders recoiled from the vision. “No. No, that's not how it happened!” Covering his face with one hand, he stumbled on, not knowing or caring where his feet took him.

There was a growing, gnawing pain in his guts, his limbs heavy and aching. He pushed on, following the path to who-knows-where, head feeling like it would split in twain any moment. He was oblivious to the slight scuff of clawed paws upon the path behind him.

He wished for the peace of amnesia. It had been frustrating but nowhere near as painful as this chaotic surge of memory. Everything was crashing over him at once in an internal cacophony that would not be still.

His shoulder slammed into rock again, and he groaned aloud before turning and sliding down the rock face, clutching at his head. “Please be quiet!” he begged the phantoms in his mind. He drew his long knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs as he rested his forehead upon his knees, lost in a world of interior pain.

A shadow fell over him. He ignored it first, too caught up in his whirlwind thoughts, until its continued presence intruded slowly upon his awareness. He lifted his head, blinking against the bright light. He narrowed his eyes to focus past the glare.

“ _You!!_ ” he snarled in recognition as he swiftly came to his feet in a defensive pose. “You will not take me a second time!” His eyes glowed golden, all traces of sanity fleeing as his skin split apart in electric blue fire. Then he reeled, screaming, as his very body began to change, the very bones shifting and realigning themselves beneath skin that sprouted tawny golden-brown fur through the spirit fire. As he opened his mouth wide in agony, the howl that burst forth from his fanged maw was utterly inhuman, equal parts pain... and rage.

With taloned claws wreathed in fire, the creature that had been Anders leapt towards the werewolf.


	16. Chapter 16

The silver wolf loped easily along, keeping his distance as he followed the mage. Emerald green eyes watched with lupine concern as the mage stumbled into the rock wall then rebounded, forcing himself on.

In this form, Fenris' sense of smell was much sharpened, and his nostrils twitched as a sickly smell wafted back up the path from the agitated apostate. Anders was unwell – but it was not a natural malady; this was the stench of corrupted magic within. Something was deeply amiss, the mage's descent into hallucination and madness but a symptom of the unbalance within at a deep, spiritual level. As the wolf padded closer, easily keeping pace with the stumbling man, he could pick out blurred scents of different forms of contagion, all woven in, around and through the very substance of the man himself. Wolf, Darkspawn, demon; he reeked of the spiritual effluvia of all three, his body the battleground for dominion of unnatural forces.

On one level, the part of Fenris that was still elf knew he should return and seek aid – call out the pack, fetch Hawke and the others. But the wolf-instinct to protect a loved one and pack mate, together with the ever-present _now_ of wolf-thought, overrode such ideas; Anders needed him _now_ , and he could brook no delay.

The wind shifted, bringing with it new scents – and suddenly the silver wolf knew they were no longer alone on this path. Ghost-like, the wolf slipped silent into the shadows as two others stepped into view; and Fenris' lip curled in a snarl as he recognised the stink of the elf, Kuriel, and the outcast werewolf Wenfast.

Before he could fling himself into battle against the ones who had tortured the mage however, there was a brilliant flash of light as the mage surged to his feet, eyes blazing an inhuman gold as his skin split open, spilling spirit fire across his body as he raised his hands, already enveloped in the supernatural flames. Then he screamed in agony as his body suddenly began to shift, stretch and mutate, golden-brown fur spreading over contorted limbs and across his face as the nose and mouth extended into a long pointed muzzle; as he bared his teeth he revealed sharp fangs, and the cry that came from his throat could never have been made by any human.

Abomination, werewolf, tainted, tortured soul. Whatever Anders was now, he was a being of chaos, wielding magic in taloned hands as he leapt towards the two who had caused him such insufferable pain and agony. Even as Wenfast shifted into half-wolf form himself and bared his fangs in challenge, Anders was upon him, hurling fire into the half-blind grizzled older werewolf's face and following it up with tooth and claw at blinding speed. He was a whirlwind of deadly gold and blue, body outlined in a nimbus of spirit fire as he fought instinctively, wolf and demon in one.

Kuriel drew a pair of long silver daggers and darted forward. He thrust and stabbed at the infuriated golden creature, but Anders barely even noticed the blades embedded in thigh and shoulder; he backhanded the elf almost casually, and Kuriel was sent flying. Fenris leapt forward to pin him down, but there was no need; the Dalish elf had been knocked unconscious by the blow. Fenris shifted his attention to the fight.

Even he, trained warrior that he was, with the gift of preternatural speed and acute senses, could barely follow the exchange of blows as the two werewolves fought like one immense blur of grey and gold, flowing back and forth. Actinic blue fire sprayed and rebounded from rocks around as Anders lashed out instinctively with raw magic, followed swiftly with his claws; Wenfast dodged and riposted with teeth, diving unerringly for Anders' collarbone and sinking his fangs deeply until hot red blood splashed his face, bathing his muzzle in gore as it streamed down Anders' chest – and yet the golden monster retaliated with a fiery fist to Wenfast's chest, raking it with outstretched talons that dripped blue-white flame that incinerated flesh and fur with a sickening stench.

Both creatures howled and roared in a deafening cacophony that reverberated around the rocks until Fenris thought that surely every living creature from here to Sundermount must surely hear it. He rose up to his feet, shifting easily back into elven form as he let his brands flare into silvery life, shifting himself into ghostly form and watching, waiting his chance to step in and aid Anders.

But they left him no opening. They fought on, seemingly oblivious to the lyrium ghost that paced around them, biding his time; if the presence of so much lyrium blazing with energy affected Anders in any way, he showed no sign of it as he tore into the one-eyed outcast, disregarding his own wounds as he inflicted horrific injuries upon the other with claw, fang and raw undirected magic.

Wenfast was fighting for his life, and losing. Anders was fighting to kill, and cared not if he died in the attempt. He was pure fury made form.

And Fenris feared for him.

The longer Anders gave in and let the rage control him, the elf knew, the harder it would be to pull himself back from the unbridled, unthinking savagery of the beast. Rational thought would die utterly; if the mage survived, he could well be left as little more than a mindless beast driven by pure instinct. This had to stop – _now –_ whilst there was still anything left of the mage to save.

But he could find no opening; no way to strike a blow without endangering Anders himself. He darted around the periphery of the fight, looking for the slightest opportunity. He howled himself in frustration, unheard above the howls and snarls of the two combatants.

So he did the only thing he could. Closing his eyes briefly, he muttered a fervent prayer – to whom, he knew not – and then opening them wide, he plunged his phased arm directly through Anders' back, following through as his hand emerged from the stiffening apostate's chest to thrust into Wenfast's breast.

His hand closed around the heart. Letting just his fingers phase back in, he squeezed.

And the light died in Wenfast's one remaining eye as Fenris crushed the life out of him with a flick of the wrist, smashing ventricles to pulp as he severed arteries. He let go as the werewolf dropped, dead at Anders' feet.

Drawing back, Fenris let his free arm phase in enough to grasp around Anders' waist as he slowly withdrew his other arm from the shuddering creature. As his hand slipped free of flesh and fur, Fenris allowed himself to phase back in fully as the furry body shifted, changed, and shrank back into the slender form of the mage, covered in blood and wounds. Anders sighed almost silently then collapsed into the elf's arms.

Fenris stared down at the wounded man who lay so still in his arms, barely breathing, lips pale and bloodless, eyes closed.

“Forgive me, my love,” he whispered.


	17. Chapter 17

Fenris stroked damp strands of blond hair away from the closed eyes. Anders did not stir; the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed was barely perceptible to the casual glance. Fenris reached for the silver dagger embedded in the unconscious apostate's shoulder, but hesitated. The silver would burn horribly to the touch – this he knew. But it was not the fear of pain that stayed his hand; rather, the fear of worsening the mage's injuries.

 And yet, by its mere presence in his flesh, the silver worsened them. He remembered all too clearly the agony of being impaled upon a silver blade, the recollection still fresh on his mind. Anders' wounds were grave enough as they were, without the added presence of the silver poisoning his weakened body. He could not leave the daggers where they were.

 Steeling himself, Fenris reached for the hilt and firmly grasped it.

The pain was exactly as he had anticipated; a shock of white-hot fire that raced up his arm from palm to shoulder, followed by pure molten agony; he cried out involuntarily even as he wrenched the blade free, hurling it away from him with a gasp before cradling his seared hand to his chest. Welts and blisters were rising to the surface of the burned flesh even as he watched, and he shuddered as a sickening feeling rolled over him.

With a feeling of dread, he turned his attention to the second dagger, embedded to the hilt in Anders' thigh. The long blade had skewered the apostate's leg, emerging through the back of the thigh; thankfully it had missed any vital arteries, but still Anders was losing a lot of blood from the wound – and that would only worsen when Fenris removed the dagger.

 It had to come out, however.

 Gritting his teeth, his hand still burning in pain, Fenris reached for the hilt and cried out at the renewed agony as he wrenched the cruel blade free of rent flesh and hurled it from him, screaming as his burned raw palm hissed and sizzled upon contact with silver. The aroma of his own burned flesh made him retch; leaning to one side, away from Anders, he spat up a small stream of bitter bile onto the stony ground as his stomach heaved and spasmed.

 It was no good. He couldn't spare the time to indulge his own discomfort; Anders would bleed to death in his lap if he didn't pull himself together and do something about it. Straightening up, he stripped the thin linen shirt from Anders' slender body and ripped it into strips. Pausing only to wind a makeshift bandage around his injured hand, Fenris set to work dressing Anders' various wounds, beginning with the two knife wounds.

 As Fenris tied off the ends of the last bandage, he became aware of movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced around to see Kuriel groggily sitting up, clutching a hand to his head. Silently Fenris slipped to his feet, picking up a nearby chunk of rock with his hand as he did so. Coming up behind the disorientated elf, he laid him out with a single blow behind the ear. He knelt down and stripped the leather belt from the elf's waist and bound the unconscious man's arms none-too-gently behind his back with the sturdy length of leather before turning back to Anders.

 Anders looked near dead; face grey, lips bloodless and pale, unmoving and his breath a merest whisper of faint life yet clinging to his gaunt frame.

 Fenris threw his head back and howled, an inhuman sound that reverberated from the rocks all around, echoing back up the path they had traversed such a short time before. He howled, and howled, and howled until his throat was raw. He howled for the pack; for Hawke, Isabela and Varric; for Anders' spirit as it hovered between life and death. He howled for fear, and in anger.

And just when he thought all was in vain, feeling Anders' heartbeat faltering beneath the hand he laid upon the slender chest, he heard an answering howl; many voices, some wolf, some human. And he bowed his head in exhaustion, relief and gladness.

 They were coming. They had heard him.

 

~ o 0 0 0 o ~

 

 

 The wolves reached him first.

 A rush of paws on rock, scattering dust and pebbles in their wake as they poured over, around the rocks, flowing down the path like a grey and brown river, flash of fang like a glint of foam in the late morning sun as they raced on.

 They surrounded him in moments, warm fur flanks pressing in around him and then shifting, changing, fur giving way to leather and rough wool, paws to hands that touched his shoulders, his back, his arms lightly, reaching out to the fallen mage in tenderness where moments before had been fierce wild nature and sharp claws – yet the amber eyes that regarded both the elf and the apostate still held a hint of that wild, inhuman nature behind concern and worry.

 Cersei was there, kneeling by his side as one hand reached to cradle Anders' pale face carefully; Carodan at his other side, checking the mage over with the practiced air of a warrior who had tended his people on more than one battlefield. “Are you hurt?” he asked the elf, sparing Fenris a brief glance.

 Fenris shook his head. “Only Anders,” he replied tersely.

 “Silver?” guessed Cersei as she gently probed around the shoulder wound with her fingertips. Fenris nodded. She held her hand out to him. “Let me see.”

 Fenris stripped the crude bandage from his hand and held it out to her, palm uppermost; her brows drew together in a frown as she noted the blistered weals across the lyrium-branded skin, then reached for her satchel.

 “No, Anders first,” demurred Fenris, pulling his hand away. “I can wait.”

 She regarded him a moment, then nodded and turned her attention instead to the unconscious mage. “There is more here than silver and talons,” she observed quietly.

 “He was... not as other men, even before Wenfast bit him,” replied Fenris uneasily. She looked at him sharply.

 Fenris was spared further explanation as Hawke & Isabela sprinted around the corner, breathless; Varric huffed into sight moments later. Hawke took in the scene at a glance and dropped the pack from his shoulders as he covered the ground to Anders' side in a few swift strides, swinging it to the ground beside the mage as he dropped to one knee and started to pull out healing potions and kits. He handed a potion to Fenris as he started applying poultices to the slashes & lacerations across the mage's pale torso.

 Fenris uncapped the potion then, slipping an arm beneath Anders' shoulders, he lifted up the mage's limp, unresponsive form and began to carefully pour the healing draught, a little at a time, between those pale bloodless lips.

There was no response at first, and then Anders twitched, his body jerking in Fenris' embrace before he licked his lips then opened his mouth wider. Fenris held the potion bottle to Anders' lips and tilted it carefully as the mage, eyes still closed, began to drink down the unpleasant-tasting liquid. Fenris drained the last drops from the bottle into Anders' mouth then threw the empty vessel to one side as he held out his hand to Hawke for another.

 Anders' eyes slowly flickered open as he drank down the second bottle. To Fenris' relief, there was intelligence in the golden gaze that stared up at him as Anders finished the second potion. “Welcome back,” the elf murmured as he tossed aside the second empty bottle. Anders frowned slightly.

 “What happened?” he asked, voice quiet. “I remember the beach, but... something happened.” His frown deepened. “Did Justice...?”

 Fenris glanced over at Wenfast's dead body. “Justice was protecting you,” replied Fenris.

 Anders glanced over at the crumpled form of the one-eyed werewolf, and his eyes widened slightly. He made to sit up, and Fenris gently helped him into a more upright position.

 “I... Justice... killed him?”

 “Not just him,” replied Fenris, jerking his chin over at the bound form of Kuriel. “We have Kuriel at our mercy.”

 Anders stared at his two captors – the one dead, the other very much alive yet indeed at their mercy. He was silent and still for long moments as he sat there, staring at the unconscious Kuriel whilst Hawke finished treating and dressing his wounds. He blinked as Hawke pulled a spare shirt out of his pack and pushed it into Anders' hands; it was only then he seemed to come back to himself and glance down, noting his lack of clothing apart from his patched and worn pants and the bandages wound about torso, arms and legs. He slowly pulled on the shirt, lifting his glance to stare again at Kuriel.

 “What are you thinking, mage?” asked Fenris quietly.

 “I don't know what to think,” replied Anders frankly.

 “His punishment is in your hands,” said Carodan. “It is your right to decide.”

 Anders flinched. “I... I need to think,” he muttered, looking suddenly queasy.

 “As you wish,” answered Cersei.

 Hawke and Fenris helped Anders slowly to his feet; he stumbled, unable to put much weight on his injured leg. Without a word, Fenris swept the slender man up into his arms and began to carry him back up the path towards the werewolf encampment.

 At first, Anders was stiff in his arms, but after a few paces he hesitantly slipped his arms around Fenris' neck and rested his head upon the elf's shoulder. He did not speak, the entire walk back to the werewolves' lair.

 Fenris was acutely aware of Anders' breath upon his neck the entire way.


	18. Chapter 18

Kuriel had refused to speak. He sat now in the middle of the cavern in front of the fire, staring straight ahead, not deigning to acknowledge his captors.

Anders sat on a log, staring at Kuriel, his brow furrowed by a frown as he leaned forward, resting his chin upon his fist. Fenris stood just behind him, whilst Hawke and Varric sat to his right, Isabela lounging against the stone wall of the cavern behind them. Cersei sat to Anders' left, Carodan standing alertly just behind her.

The rest of the pack was ranged in a circle around the cave. Half were in wolf form, the rest human apart from a couple who preferred a half-wolf form. They were silent, watching all with keen interest.

Cersei glanced to Anders. “His transgression was against you. The right is yours to decide his fate.”

Anders stirred. “Not me alone,” he reminded them. “He took Fenris.”

The elf shifted his weight from one foot to the other restlessly. “Would you have me kill him, then?”

“Maker, no!” objected Anders, twisting round upon the log to stare up at Fenris. “I, I can't – I _won't_ ask anyone to kill upon my behalf!” He turned and stared back at Kuriel. The elf stared through him impassively.

“Why? Why all this bloodshed? What did you hope to gain?” he said incredulously. “And why Wenfast? You _hate_ werewolves; why would you choose to work with one?”

Kuriel finally stirred, his lip curling into a sneer as he finally returned Anders' gaze. “Because they are _weak_. They are easily controlled. How better to destroy them than by using one of their own against them?”

The werewolves broke out into angry shouts, some rising to their feet and shaking their fists angrily whilst lupine snarls filled the air, but none broke into the circle. Carodan raised one hand, and they dropped into sullen silence.

“What did you hope to gain by turning Wenfast against his own people?” Cersei asked, her voice neutral and devoid of emotion.

“War,” spat Kuriel. “The annihilation of all of you abominations, beginning with _them_.” He jerked his chin at Anders and Fenris.

“The ways of your people were not enough for you; you had to transgress them in your search for revenge,” remarked Fenris.

“Should have killed him when you had the chance, Broody,” muttered Varric. A wry twist of the lip was Fenris' silent acknowledgement of the truth in the dwarf's words.

“So kill me and have done with it,” snarled Kuriel.

“With pleasure,” purred Isabela, drawing a knife and twirling it slowly in her fingers.

“No,” said Anders, suddenly pushing himself to his feet. Turning, he began to pace back and forth before the kneeling, unrepentant elf, his left leg still limping a little even after a healing session and rest.

“Anders....” said Hawke quietly. Anders halted and turned to face the human rogue.

“Hawke, I can't. Not in cold blood like this. Nor will I stand by and watch someone else _execute_ him for what he did to me. I... I can't.” He put a hand to his face and bowed his head. “In the heat of battle, then yes, I've killed... but whatever else I may be, I'm a healer, Hawke. I'm not a murderer.” He lifted his head to stare Hawke in the eye. “I may be an abomination, but never a murderer. Never that.”

“It is not murder to dispense justice,” remarked Cersei. Anders whirled and stared at her.

“Justice? Don't-” He broke off and bit his lip. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, I won't. Not this. It's _wrong,_ ” he murmured.

“Anders?” asked Hawke, suddenly concerned. He rose to his feet and laid a hand upon the apostate's shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Anders turned and glanced at him, and Hawke recoiled a step as the amber eyes blazed suddenly golden, streaked with electric blue.

“ _THERE IS ONLY ONE JUSTICE WITHIN THE PACK,_ ” the being in Anders' form intoned in a hollow voice; then Anders shrank back, clutching his head. “No, no!” he hissed. He closed his eyes, lips set in a thin line as he inhaled deeply. When he opened his eyes again, they were once more amber-brown. “That was too close,” he muttered. “They're getting stronger. Joining. I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.”

Hawke reached out and patted Anders' shoulder. “What can we do?” he wondered. Anders stared down at Kuriel.

“We'll take him back to the Dalish,” he said. “Keeper Marethari will know how to deal with him.”

For the first time since he had awakened as their captive, Kuriel suddenly looked stricken with fear at mention of the Keeper's name.

Hawke ignored the elf at their feet as he shook his head and tightened the grip on Anders' shoulders slightly. “No, I mean for _you_ ,” he clarified. “What's going on in there? Justice I could sort of understand, but something's changed inside you -”

Anders allowed himself to be pulled in closer as he bowed his head. “Not the time, Hawke. Not here and now,” he said quietly, low so that only the rogue heard. “We'll talk later, OK? When it's just us – you, me, Fenris, Isabela and Varric.”

Hawke regarded him for a moment then nodded. “As you wish.” He lifted a hand and curled it around the back of Anders' neck, pressing his forehead against Anders' briefly. “But we _will_ talk, OK?”

Anders pulled away and nodded, then turned away, stepping over the log and heading towards his sleeping furs.

Fenris watched him pass, but did not follow; he glanced after the mage however, and his expression was troubled.

 

 

~ o O O O o ~

 

 

 

They did not set out alone from Sundermount; the wolf-pack followed with them.

Fenris scouted ahead with Isabela, whilst Hawke and Anders walked side by side, the mage leaning heavily upon his staff from time to time. Varric brought up the rear, followed by two werewolves escorting the prisoner, Kuriel. Carodan followed behind; Cersei ran with the pack, who flowed around them and through the rocks above each side of the path.

“So you think Justice and the werewolf have – what, merged?” said Hawke in a low voice as they headed up the steep path. Anders shrugged.

“I can't pick out the werewolf or Justice separately; it's like one entity that feels slightly different in parts that runs all through me,” said Anders slowly as he picked his way around fallen rocks. “I'm not sure how to describe it. I can feel them both, and yet it's like I'm picking up different parts of one whole. It's not like how it was before, when Justice was an integral part of me; now I can feel him – them – separate inside me. And yet....”

“It's – _they_ – are... what, entwined with you? Like ivy through a tree?” suggested Hawke.

“Like that, yes,” agreed Anders. “Set the vine on fire and you'll burn the tree with it. It's... a part of me.”

“And it's trying to take you over?”

Anders nodded. “It feels that way. The thought of Justice bonded to a werewolf, and in control of my body....” He shuddered. “But that's what's happening. It was... overwhelming at first, but I think I can hold it in. But....”

“It gets harder to fight it when it's aroused?” suggested Hawke. Anders nodded.

“I don't know what I'm going to do, Hawke,” he admitted quietly. “I don't know of any cure for lycanthropy that won't end with me dead, one way or another. I'm not sure that Justice can be separated from the werewolf – or that he won't have been somehow permanently altered by it. And I'm not sure if there would be any safe way to separate them both from myself without my dying in the process.” There was a note of desperation in the mage's voice. “But I am deathly afraid that together, they will overwhelm me – and as the wolf, I lose all concept of friend or foe, Hawke.”

“You're afraid you'll turn on us in the heat of battle?”

Anders stopped and turned to Hawke. “I'm afraid that you will be forced to kill me.”

Hawke gaped at Anders as the mage regarded him haggardly. _“'When I'm finished, you'll be begging for death... and I will make him be the one to give it to you.'_ That's what Kuriel said to me, right before Wenfast bit me.”

“Make _him_...?” wondered Hawke.

Anders gave a sad little smile. “Fenris,” he said simply, before turning and walking on.

Hawke regarded him sympathetically. After a moment, he followed after, catching the tall apostate up after a few strides.

When Anders stumbled, Hawke silently took his elbow and steadied him. They walked on together in silence.


	19. Chapter 19

Fenris picked up the scent of the Dalish camp long before they came within view of the aravels. He paused and held up a hand in warning; the wolves melted away into the shadows as though they had never been, though Fenris was acutely aware of their presence still, like a warm hum of wildness in the back of his mind that sharpened when he turned in their direction, their scent strong and sharp though the humans were oblivious to it.

Hawke moved up to join the elf, Anders a step behind. Varric hung back, Bianca casually held in his hands, a nocked bolt by sheer coincidence happening to point in the direction of Kuriel’s heart.

“You are known and respected by the Dalish, Hawke; Marethari will listen to you,” rumbled the elf quietly. “I am... not so sure my presence would be welcomed after our last visit.”

“Marethari said there was no further quarrel between us,” replied Hawke.

“There may be others that felt the same way as Kuriel,” remarked Anders quietly. “They simply haven’t moved openly against us yet. No point in making ourselves an easy target just yet.”

“Good point,” agreed Hawke. “Fenris, Anders, stay here; Isabela, Varric - with me.”

Varric lifted Bianca up, disengaging the bolt but not slinging her upon his back just yet as he nodded and strode forward. Fenris and Anders fell back to allow the two men to pass, then watched as Isabela dropped in behind Hawke to match stride with Varric with a deceptive air of boredom that fooled no-one who knew her.

“Sit down,” said Fenris quietly as their friends disappeared around the turn in the path.

“I will not,” replied Anders, his voice also low, his face set in a stubborn grimace Fenris recognised.

“They will be gone some time, and you are not recovered-”

“I am also not a cripple or feeble, Fenris.” His tone was testy.

“I did not say you were. But you would do well to conserve your energy for the moment whilst you may.” The elf glanced away as he shifted his sword to one side then gracefully folded his legs to sit in one smooth practiced movement.

Anders stared down at the top of Fenris’ snowy-white head for a moment, then grudgingly sat upon a fallen boulder beside the elf, laying his staff across his knees with a faint sigh.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Kuriel’s werewolf guards had roughly thrust him down to the ground some distance away, and Carodan stood nearby as the elf sweated, looking visibly discomforted and almost ill this close to the aravels of his people.

“Anders....”

The apostate lifted his head and glanced at the white-haired elf to find himself being studied by Fenris’ emerald gaze. He raised one eyebrow in mute query; taking heart, Fenris twisted round to face the taller man who loomed over him from his higher seat.

“You said your memories had returned. When you fled from me....”

The corners of Anders’ mouth quirked down in a little _mou_ of distress as a pained look darkened his eyes. “Please... don’t. Not here, now.”

Fenris hesitantly lifted a hand then, gently laid it upon Anders’ hand as is it tightened upon the worn haft of his staff. “You were angered, disgusted, hurt and terrified by something you remembered of me. I swear to you, whatever it was you remembered that distressed you, I was... I was blind and a fool then. My eyes have been opened since then - _you_ opened them, by your words and deeds. And more than my eyes were opened.” His fingers squeezed Anders’ hand gently. “I swear I would sooner die than hurt you that way ever again. I do not expect you to forgive or forget such raw memories - but if you will give me a chance, I will prove myself and earn your trust again. If you will allow me?”

Anders lowered his head and stared down at their hands, the warm brown lined with silver pressed reassuringly over his own pale fingers. Loosening his grip upon the staff, he allowed Fenris to slowly entwine their hands.

“Anders...?” asked Fenris softly when long moments had passed and the mage still did not speak. The blond apostate lifted his head, his golden eyes haunted. “Fenris, I-” he began, voice hoarse with emotion, but they were interrupted by Isabela reappearing around the bend in the path. Anders straightened, clearing his throat as Fenris reluctantly disentangled his hand with a wordless sigh before rising to his feet in one smooth movement.

“Hawke needs you two. And he says to bring _him_.” Her head jerked in the direction of Kuriel, who paled further. The two werewolves pulled him roughly to his feet between them and stepped forward, but Isabela raised a hand to forestall them. “No, Hawke says it’s best if we take him in ourselves - the three of us.”

The two werewolves looked to Carodan who regarded Isabela thoughtfully, then nodded to the two who stood down. “Your Hawke has some plan, I trust. We shall see what fruit it bears.” He jerked his head at the werewolves, then all three melted away into the shadows - almost like shadows themselves.

“Damn, but they’re good,” muttered Isabela admiringly.

“They are,” concurred Fenris as Anders rose to his feet. Isabela and Fenris took charge of Kuriel and followed the apostate as he set off after Hawke and the others.

 

\---

 

The Dalish encampment was familiar and yet different to Anders this time; the aravels were the same, as were the people - and yet this time he was aware of a whole different dimension to the encampment.

The smells.

Scents of wood fires, food cooking (broth, mostly; he could even distinguish the rabbit and herbs in the savoury stew that bubbled over the cooking fires), the smell of old blood, a sharp tang of ammonia, faint aroma of decay from the frames of stretched hide that were being tanned into leather. The scent of sun-warmed old wood bleached ash-grey by countless seasons as they passed the outermost aravels towards the centre of the camp. And the scents of the people themselves - faint, ethereal, yet still there. Different from the smells of Hawke and the others, yet also different from the elf who walked beside him. Anders glanced his way and found himself being regarded thoughtfully by Fenris. He dropped his gaze hastily and glanced away.

Yet the scents all around tantalised and fascinated him. They wove a rich tapestry all round him that he had been oblivious to before.

_Was this how Fenris experienced the world? Was this the gift of wolf-blood flowing through his veins - this glimpse into a whole different world of sensation he had never known existed before?_

Was this how Justice had felt when first they had joined, suddenly overwhelmed by all the sensations experienced by a breathing body instead of a corpse?

“Anders?” Fenris’ voice was low; Anders’ sharpened hearing picked up the note of concern even as he picked up the sharp, slightly sour scent of anxiety that punctuated the warm, earthy, wild smell that was uniquely Fenris.

_I could track you by scent even if there were no moon in the sky._ Anders wasn’t sure if he should be comforted or alarmed by that sudden realisation.

“I’m fine,” he demurred quietly, but he knew the words for a lie even as he breathed them. He wasn’t fine. The scents, sounds and smells were overwhelming him, and it was hard to concentrate, keep himself grounded in the here and now when his senses and instincts were clamouring to dart hither and thither, investigate this new strangeness, taste the smells on the wind, the aroma of food, people, blood -

Blood. He could smell blood. The realisation unleashed a sudden flood of memories, triggered by the scent; he remembered that smell. That taste. _Mouth full of blood, of flesh; blood over his hands, in his hair, smeared across his face, the rended remains of a limb clutched still in one hand, sinew and skin caught in his teeth, staring round eyes wide with the dawning return of conscious awareness at the carnage he had wrought knowing that they had done this, they had committed this atrocity, they the abomination -_

“Anders!” hissed Fenris, face mere inches from Anders’, the green eyes boring into him as the elf shook him roughly. “Anders, control yourself! You’re safe!”

Anders gasped and glanced around at the concerned faces of his friends before dropping his gaze to his trembling hands.

Clean. No blood. No taste of blood in his mouth.

He lifted his gaze up to Fenris and shuddered. “I don’t know what happened,” he murmured.

Fenris’ lip curled in his habitual snarl, but the look in his eyes was sympathetic. “Isabela, your scarf, please,” he requested, holding out one hand.

Isabela glanced mutely from Fenris to the wide-eyed apostate, frowning slightly, then untied her headscarf and put it into Fenris’ hand wordlessly. Fenris pushed the scarf up towards Anders’ face; the apostate recoiled, restrained by the warrior’s grip on his arm.

“Smell it,” ordered Fenris. Anders frowned, not understanding. “Go on,” ordered the elf.

Cautiously, Anders took a sniff. It smelled of Isabela herself, overlaid with a heady aroma of the perfumed oil she dressed her raven-black curls with. It quite effectively masked the scents of the Dalish camp around them, and suddenly Anders understood. He took the scarf from Fenris and covered his nose and mouth with the blue brocade fabric, inhaling deeply.

“Fenris, what-” began Hawke, but Varric interjected.

“You never tried to lead a horse that spooked at a smell, Hawke?” he said conversationally. “There was this fire once in the Vicount’s stables, I hear tell; all the horses were so spooked at the smell of burning, they wouldn’t move - until one of the stable lads took the scarf from his neck and tied it over the horses’ muzzles. They couldn’t smell the smoke, only him - and one by one, he led the horses to safety. Smart lad. I wonder what happened to him.” He brushed an imaginary speck of dirt off Bianca’s polished walnut stock. “I believe Marethari’s expecting us. Doesn’t do to keep the Keeper waiting.” He turned and began to walk over towards the fire that burned in the centre of the ring of aravels, larger than all the other cooking fires.

With a grateful look at Fenris, Anders followed after.

Marethari stood facing the fire, but she turned as they approached. She looked kindly upon Anders and Fenris, but then her expression darkened and hardened as she cast her gaze upon Kuriel. Her voice was soft and melodious however as she addressed herself to Hawke, never once taking her eyes from the disgraced elf.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Hawke,” she greeted him, inclining her head towards the human. “You have brought us one who has caused us much grief. _Vhenen him abelas_ ; that such darkness should have touched us all at this time.” She shook her head sadly, then turned her gaze once more upon Kuriel who shrank in upon himself. “Have you nothing to say, _harellan lath’din_?” she asked.

Kuriel looked up, eyes widening as her words sank in. “No, I am no trickster!” he protested. “I did what I had to, to protect our people! These _shem_ bring disaster amongst us! They would destroy us all, meddling in affairs that do not concern them. They had to be taught a lesson!”

“And you feel you are the one to teach them, Kuriel? You are but a hunter. Or do you set yourself above even your own clan’s Keeper?” Marethari drew herself up straighter. “It is not these humans that bring disaster, but your own betrayal, Kuriel. You would bring down the wrath of the shapeshifters upon us; would you have us make war? We few? You think our clan would survive such a foolishness?”

“Keeper, I swear-”

“ _Halam sahlin_ ,” Marethari said flatly, cutting him off with gesture. “It is over. We will not fight the werewolves. It is you who have transgressed against them, not we of the Sabrae. You were outcast the moment you raised your hand against Hawke’s companions.”

Anders stared at Marethari in surprise. This was a side of the kindly, gentle Keeper he had never seen before. Was she truly casting Kuriel out to the less-than-tender mercies of the werewolves?

Kuriel himself certainly seemed to think so. He threw himself upon the ground at Marethari’s feet, prostrating himself and begging her forgiveness in a flood of elvhen.

After a little while, Marethari stepped back with an expression of distaste and gestured to two of the Dalish hunters, whose expressions mirrored hers. “Take him away. Bind him. I will send word what it to be done with him; do you guard him until that time.”

“Keeper,” they nodded in agreement; and taking an arm each, they dragged Kuriel away between the aravels, still loudly protesting and begging Marethari to hear him and reconsider.

“Come,” she said to Hawke, her face suddenly looking very old and careworn. “We have much to discuss.” She led the way away from the fire towards her aravel, and as she went it seemed all the cares of the world were upon her shoulders.

In silence they followed.


	20. Chapter 20

Anders followed Hawke, Varric and Isabela into the Keeper’s aravel, Fenris an almost ghost-like presence behind him. Anders’ gaze was on the brightly-coloured woven mats that covered the floor, but he lifted his head, sensing eyes upon him. As he glanced around, it was obvious that Hawke and Marethari had been discussing him; they were both regarding him intently - Hawke’s expression troubled, the elven Keeper’s gaze kindly yet grave.

“Hawke has told me of what troubles you, child,” Marethari said gently, and gestured towards him. “Come, let me look at you.”

With an uncertain look back at Fenris, Anders allowed himself to be beckoned forward. He towered over the diminutive elf; and yet somehow he felt small and childlike under that knowing, ancient gaze. She regarded him thoughtfully for long minutes whilst he shuffled restlessly from foot to foot, scuffing the worn toe of one boot into the pile of the small rug at his feet. He wanted to look away or drop his gaze, but something in those emerald green eyes transfixed him to the spot. It were as though she were somehow looking into his very soul.

Perhaps she was.

Finally with a small reassuring smile, she gestured to him to sit; with an exhaled huff of relief, Anders flopped down gracelessly onto a nearby pile of cushions, trying to arrange his long limbs into a position that wouldn’t have his back and knees screaming in under a handful of minutes. He couldn’t quite quell the resentful look he darted at Fenris as the white-haired elf dropped easily into a cross-legged slouch next to him. He took some small measure of satisfaction in Hawke’s expression of discomfort as the larger man tried to get into a semi-comfortable position in spite of his armour.

“There are two forces within you, child, and both will rend you asunder if left unchecked,” Marethari stated without preamble. “The wolf blood, that is known to me - but the other is strange.” She cocked her head to one side, expression one of curiosity. “Tell me, child; how is it you bear a demon inside and yet do not fall prey to it? It is like no other spirit I have ever encountered.”

“Justice is no demon,” replied Anders, but his tone held no heat, only the weary resignation of an answer given by rote.

“Yet this Justice would seek to control you - or would were it not so preoccupied with the wolf within you, I think,” she replied.

“Justice doesn’t control me,” denied Anders. “We’re joined - we’re one, I can barely tell any more where he ends and I begin.”

“Is that so?” replied Marethari thoughtfully. “I think you know perfectly well where Anders begins now - and that’s quite separate from your Justice.”

“No, I...” began Anders before tailing off.

It was true. He felt himself more than he had in a very long time. He was aware of Justice still lurking inside, but the spirit was... distant, its focus elsewhere. His thoughts were his own. And yet he could still feel the spirit’s essence woven all through his own. They were together yet apart; and yet were the spirit to be ripped from his flesh he knew he would feel the loss keenly.

And as he let his awareness dwell upon those dark places within, he was terribly conscious of the malevolent, raging entity that was the werewolf within. It and Justice were locked in eternal battle within the very core of his being, both vying for dominion over the other - and over Anders himself.

“They will destroy you with their strife, child,” said Marethari gently. “Their battle is taking a toll upon you; it is a terrible burden that will be your undoing.”

“Can you help him?” rumbled Fenris at his side.

“Yes,” acceded Marethari, inclining her head, “And yet even that will not be without a cost.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hawke.

“I cannot separate the two spirits,” replied the Keeper gravely. “They are too closely entwined; their substance blurred together. I would have to drive both out, but at what cost to his soul I cannot say.”

“You can... free him? Completely?” demanded Fenris, leaning forward, a sudden gleam in his eyes.

“It is not a simple matter, but... yes, I can free him of his demons, if he wishes,” she nodded, turning back to Anders once more. “But only you can decide if it is worth the price you will undoubtedly pay.”

“What will happen if you do nothing?” asked Anders, his mouth suddenly dry.

She regarded him sadly. “You will lose control more and more. There will be more wolf, a little less Anders each time; and as Justice and the wolf strive to overcome each other the battle will take more of a toll upon your body, making it harder to resist. Eventually you will succumb, and either the wolf or the demon will take your place. Perhaps both.”

“A werewolf abomination? I’m not sure I care for the sound of that,” replied Hawke uneasily.

“Indeed, it would be a thing to be feared,” agreed Marethari.

“I will not permit it to happen,” vowed Fenris.

“And what will you do to stop it, warrior who is named for the Wolf?” replied Marethari. “Would you have the courage to slay one for whom you-”

“I would,” Fenris said swiftly, cutting her off. “I would release him from his curse myself if that were the only way to save him.”

“Do I get a say in any of this?” uttered Anders plaintively.

“Of course,” replied Marethari calmly. “That is why we are here, child.”

Anders stared down at his hands. They were trembling.

“Anders?” murmured Fenris, laying a hand upon his shoulder.

“I’m afraid,” whispered Anders hoarsely.

“It would be a strange thing indeed were you not,” replied Marethari. “Bravery lies not in confronting things without fear, but in fearing yet choosing to walk into the darkness regardless.” She tilted her head to one side. “Will you walk?”

Anders swallowed past the lump of fear in his throat then slowly nodded. “Let’s do this,” he said quietly as Fenris’ grip tightened reassuringly upon his shoulder. Fenris had no idea what Anders was facing, yet the blond apostate took comfort in his presence. “So, when do we start?” wondered the mage.

“You already have,” replied Kuriel as he lunged towards Anders with a feral snarl and everything turned red then black.


	21. Chapter 21

Anders recoiled, flinging himself backwards even as blackness swirled about him like ink spreading in dark water, obscuring everything around him. He felt himself falling and cried out in alarm, flinging his arms wide to try and halt his fall.

He hit the water hard, the air driven from his lungs in a loud huff even as the chill waters closed over him, drawing him down into the murky depths. He panicked briefly then forced himself to relax and go limp, letting himself float. As he felt himself start to rise up towards the surface, he struck out in that direction until his head burst out into open air and he could draw breath once more.

He stared around himself. He was standing in the centre of a dark pool, the water black as ink and still as glass, save for the slow ripples spreading out from where he disturbed the water as he slowly looked around himself. He was in the middle of a glade in a dark forest, though overhead he could see the night sky and stars – strange stars that he was sure had never shone over Thedas. The faint greenish cast in the dark sky and the dark silhouette of the Black City far on the horizon told him what he already knew; he was within the Fade.

Gathering his soaking wet robes to himself, he waded out of the pool; the heavy waterlogged cloth pulled him down as he struggled out onto the grass. He stripped off the outer mantel, letting it fall in a sodden heap at his feet before peeling off the under-robe. He pulled off his shirt, balling it up in his hands and wringing out the water; it became dry beneath his hands. Tugging it back on again over his damp hair, he toed the robes which were still soaked – though now with blood, it appeared. Grimacing with distaste, he turned away.

A snarl behind him had him spinning and dropping into a low crouch, his hands lifted before him as he called magic to his fingertips, the energy surging within so much stronger than in the waking world as flames outlined his fingers, trailing behind in the air as he moved. The words of the spell died on his lips as he stared at Fenris.

The white-haired elf crouched before him, one hand braced against the ground, talons flexed into the dirt as the other hand curled loosely, curved claws glinting wetly in the eerie halflight that illuminated everything in the Fade with a sickly luminescence. Fenris' jade-green eyes held only flat hostility as the warrior growled, the sound low and guttural.

“Fenris,” breathed Anders as he inched a foot backwards, drawing back slowly from the feral creature. “Are you real? Or are you a demon?”

“What do you think, mage?” snarled the elf, lurching forward towards the blond apostate. Anders backed up a couple of steps, then shook his head regretfully.

“I have to assume you are a demon,” he sighed. “And if not....” He closed his eyes briefly as the energy shot out from his hands in a large ball of flame that struck the elf square in the chest. “Pray you forgive me later,” he whispered as Fenris howled in agony and fury. He opened his eyes and backed away from the burning elf as Fenris' form shifted, writhing as he began to change.

The white hair singed and crisped away in the flames even as the werewolf shifted into its monstrous half-wolf form, towering up over the mage as it howled its pain, skin blackening and peeling open to reveal bloody raw flesh between the cracks as it took one step, then another towards him, blood and straw-coloured fluids trickling over the charred meat. The stench of burned flesh filled Anders' nostrils and he retched as he backed away.

“You will pay for that, mage,” the monster promised, its voice hoarse and rasping as it advanced slowly towards him. Anders readied another spell as he took another step backwards. “I don't want to have to do this,” he warned the werewolf.

“ _YOU HAVE NO CHOICE,_ ” a voice said hollowly close to his ear as his slow retreat was suddenly halted by a firm heavy hand upon his arm. Anders' eyes widened as he turned and stared at the form of Justice even as the armoured spirit closed its grip upon his other arm, holding him fast. Anders lurched forward, twisting, trying to free himself but the spirit's grip was like stone.

“What do you mean, I have no choice?” Anders exclaimed, struggling. “Justice, unhand me!”

“ _THIS WAS INEVITABLE FROM THE START,_ ” intoned the spirit. “ _YOU MUST YIELD TO ME AND TOGETHER WE WILL DESTROY THE BEAST.”_

“The beast? Justice, that's Fenris, not some beast!”

“ _HE HAS ALWAYS BEEN THE BEAST. YOU WERE BLINDED BY YOUR DESIRES, BUT TOGETHER WE WILL BE STRONG AND DEFEAT THIS MONSTER AND ALL OTHERS LIKE IT. WE WILL BRING JUSTICE TO IT AND ITS MURDERING KIN._ ”

“No,” whispered Anders as the werewolf advanced towards him, its breath rank upon his face. He flung up a hand, and the werewolf was encased in ice. “No,” he said louder, voice stronger, as he crossed his hands across his chest and grasped the armoured gauntlets that held him fast. He called upon the magic and sent a burst of pure raw spirit magic into the spirit.

“No!” he screamed as Justice roared in agony, its grasp tightening painfully upon Anders' arms even as the magic rebounded back through the spirit's form, the mage caught firmly in the backlash. He screamed as the steel-clad fingers crushed his flesh, the magic ripping through his body even as it tore through the spirit's form. The magic seemed to be surging through him beyond his control, and he was caught in a vicious feedback loop of pure energy as he poured it into Justice and it surged back through the spirit's grasp into his own body. He wasn't sure how much longer he could endure this; the pain racking his body was beyond anything he'd ever felt before.

And then the hands restraining him loosened, fell away; and Anders fell forward – into the grasp of the werewolf as it broke free from the ice. It wrapped its burned, bloody arms around him, trapping his bruised and bloodied arms by his sides in some parody of a lover's embrace, and as Anders raised his eyes the werewolf gave a ghastly smile.

“Now you are mine,” it rasped. “Yield and live.”

“Never,” breathed Anders, as he opened himself to the magic once more.

His last thought as his hair began to singe around his face was wonderment at the look of sorrow he thought he could see deep within the jade eyes of the werewolf as flames enveloped them both.

Then mercifully all was dark and he knew no more.


	22. Chapter 22

“Anders.”

He was floating in darkness.

He had no way of knowing how long he had been drifting there, though he had the impression it had been quite a while. He was not quite sure just when consciousness began to return, but gradually he became aware that he was floating limply in the darkness, with no knowledge of how he came to be there.

His limbs were bathed in coolness without feeling chilled; like being immersed in fluid, yet he breathed air. He lifted a hand before his face but at first he could see nothing; and then slowly, dimly, he was able to make out the faint outline of his fingers against the deep inky blackness all around him. The light had a faint greenish quality and wavered as it filtered through the opaque darkness, as though he were deep underwater. And yet he was not drowning.

Or perhaps he had, and this was death? But then he didn't recall falling into water... or did he?

A flickering trace of memory; a dark pool in a woodland glade....

“Anders.”

He turned his head, his hair fanning out around him in the void like fine strands of gold silk, shimmering faintly green in the diffuse light. He wasn't sure just where the sound had come from. Perhaps he had imagined it.

It was pleasant, floating here in the cool green depths. He let his eyes drift closed again as he hung there, limp and unresisting. Peaceful.

“Anders.”

A small frown creased his brow. No. Not peaceful. Something was wrong, something... missing. His amber-brown eyes opened once more as he frowned into the void. Something … but where?

Inside. There was a hollow emptiness where once there was... what? He was not sure. He pressed a hand against his chest and felt his heart beating steadily; and yet even with this proof he was still alive, he could only feel the sense of discontent and nameless loss echoing inside. Something was missing inside him, but he couldn't put his finger on what, precisely.

“Anders.”

He glanced up. He heard his name. He was sure of it. And yet... who would be calling him, here? Wherever _here_ was.

“Anders.”

_Here!_ he tried to cry, but no sound escaped his lips; instead a rush of bubbles bursting from his lungs; and suddenly he couldn't breathe, he was choking, drowning, the water pressing in upon him, crushing him, threatening to drown him.

“Anders!”

The faint green glimmer was stronger above; in a blind panic, he struck out towards that light, thrashing his legs as his hands clawed for the surface, driving himself up and onwards towards air, light, life....

He opened his eyes with a gasp to find himself staring into wide jade-green eyes, framed by soft white hair. The stench of burning assailed his nostrils and his first gasping breath turned into a coughing fit. Fenris slid an arm beneath his shoulder and helped him sit upright as he choked and coughed, tears streaming down his face. “What- Fenris, what-”

“The aravel,” replied the elf quietly. Anders glanced over Fenris' shoulder, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the Keeper's aravel ablaze. “Maker – Hawke, Marethari -”

“All safe,” replied Fenris calmly.

“What happened?” asked Anders bewildered, then coughed as the wind blew a gust of smoke and stinging ashes over them.

“You did,” replied Hawke as he hunkered down on Anders' other side, across from Fenris.

“Me?” choked Anders, eyes widening in confusion.

“You,” affirmed Hawke, prodding Anders firmly in the chest with one forefinger for emphasis. “Marethari did something, you keeled over backwards as though you'd been struck dead on the spot-”

“- Hawke and I had to practically sit on Broody here -” Varric interjected; Fenris glared at him.

“- and then a few minutes later, you went into convulsions and all this energy started crackling all over your body, like when Justice takes over your body except you were screaming. It was as though you were trying to electrocute yourself. And then you tried to set yourself on fire.”

“I did?” Anders blinked in bewilderment.

“Succeeded in setting the cushions and drapes on fire,” nodded Varric. “It was quite spectacular. The whole lot went up in minutes. We only just got ourselves, you and the Keeper out in time.”

Anders stared at the blazing remains of the aravel. “Andraste's flaming knickers,” he breathed.

“More like Marethari's flaming-” began Isabela then cleared her throat and looked away with a grin as Fenris' glare deepened to a hostile glower.

Anders lifted a hand and stared at the scorch marks across his fingertips, then stared at Hawke.

“How are you feeling now?” asked Hawke, his voice gentling slightly.

“I'm not sure,” replied Anders quietly. “Sore. Tired.” He glanced back at the burning aravel. “Apprehensive,” he added.

“Do you... did... Justice...?” asked Hawke hesitantly.

Anders pressed his hand over his heart. It beat steadily beneath his hand, and yet he felt oddly hollow and empty inside. “I think he's gone,” replied Anders quietly. Fenris' hand tightened slightly upon his shoulder, and Anders leaned a little into the touch, drawing comfort from it.

“And the werewolf?” Varric raised an eyebrow.

“Gone,” replied Fenris tersely, before Anders could answer. The mage gave him a questioning look. “I can no longer scent the wolfblood in you,” explained the elf. “It is as though it had never been.”

“No... not quite,” replied Anders quietly, lifting a hand to the scars around his throat.

“So what now?” asked Isabela. “Anders is OK again, Justice is gone, Kuriel's locked up and out of our hair....”

“... We owe Marethari a new aravel,” put in Varric. Hawke groaned.

“Leave the Keeper to me,” he suggested as he pushed himself to his feet. He turned to look for the Keeper then froze before slowly shaking his head in disbelief. “Well I'll be a nug's uncle,” he breathed.

They all turned to see what had distracted him. Anders struggled to his feet, Fenris wrapping a strong arm around his waist and helping him up as the mage stared at the flames leaping up from a second aravel.

“Isn't that where...?” began Isabela.

“It wasn't me, I swear it!” exclaimed Anders. “I was nowhere near that one!”

“You did not have to be, child,” replied Marethari quietly as she slipped silently into the midst of their small group. Anders jumped, startled, as he turned to stare down at the diminutive elven Keeper.

“I don't understand?” he murmured.

“You both shared the same blood, child. The werewolf who tainted you with his bite also tainted Kuriel's blood. At the moment I laid my magic upon you, child, Kuriel was also drawn into the Fade. When you destroyed the werewolf within you, it also destroyed that within Kuriel; they were of one nature, one spirit.”

“Then – Kuriel is -” Anders turned and stared at horrified eyes at the burning aravel.

“Dead, child. He could not survive the destruction of the demon in his own blood.”

“I killed him,” breathed Anders.

“No, child,” replied Marethari sadly. “That one doomed himself long ago. You were merely the instrument of his destruction, but he was the cause of it. May his spirit rest now in peace.”

The Keeper inclined her head towards Hawke. “ _Dar'eth shiral_ , Hawke. It would be best if you leave this place now, and take your friends somewhere safe. We must say our farewells to the dead, and my people may not remember that our quarrel was not with you in their grief.”

“ _Dar'eth shiral_ , Keeper,” replied Hawke, bowing slightly. “We'll be on our way,” he promised.

“I'm sorry!” blurted out Anders as Marethari turned to leave. “I only ever seem to bring your people grief.”

Marethari turned and smiled sadly at him. “The crow does not bring the storm, _da'len_. He can only try to outfly it. He simply hopes to survive it, as must we all.” She inclined her head towards him, then turned and slowly walked towards her waiting attendants.

“Let's get out of here,” muttered Fenris. Anders nodded, and allowed himself to be led away from his friends.

He could still smell the smoke upon the air long after the Dalish camp had disappeared from view.


	23. Chapter 23

Anders left the talking to Hawke and Fenris.

He leaned against a nearby tree and watched silently as the two men described how Kuriel had met his end to Carodan and Cersei. The two werewolves had exchanged grim looks as Hawke related the keeper's explanation to them; at mention of a “shared spirit” in the blood, Cersei had looked up and given Anders a shrewd, thoughtful look before turning her attention back to Hawke. Anders felt a slight discomfort under her gaze, and inwardly flinched each time that piercing gaze was turned back upon him.

Carodan's pitying look as Fenris took over and described Anders' lack of wolf-blood in his scent was more than Anders had stomach for; he turned away and made his way under the eaves of the trees into the shadows. He grinned humourlessly as he reflected that whilst the wolf-blood may no longer flow in his veins, it seemed certain wolflike habits had not yet deserted him – here he was, retreating into a dark place to hide. Hawke had draped his cloak around Anders' shoulders as they made their way from the Dalish encampment, and as Anders settled himself down against the bole of an old oak he pulled the thick woollen garment closer about himself. There was a chill bite in the air, and he did not need the wolfblood to smell the change in the weather.

A twig snapped quietly somewhere behind and to his left. “Watch your footing, Isabela,” he warned her without looking round. “There are rabbit holes under the moss.”

“All alone, sweet thing?” the Rivaini pirate mused as she made her way cautiously across the moss-covered ground to join him.

“Yes... and no,” he responded flatly. She paused, staring at him thoughtfully, then stepped around the bole of the tree and sat down on a fallen tree trunk nearby, facing the blond apostate.

“Come on, out with it,” she said, not unkindly. He stared up at her through a curtain of loose dark blond hair; there was a lost, haunted look about his amber eyes that was all too familiar to Isabela. She'd seen it gazing back from a mirror too often in the dark days after she was first stranded in Kirkwall, bereft of her ship and purpose.

“It's empty inside, where there ought to be something, isn't it?” she said quietly. He blinked, and she smiled. “Oh, I've been there. Believe me, I know that feeling all too well. It's like a piece of your soul has gone, and you don't know how you'll ever fill the emptiness.”

“Justice and I... he was a part of me for so long. His thoughts... they were my thoughts. I couldn't tell where he ended and I began. Now he's gone, it's like a part of me went with him, yet I still have all these thoughts, memories, ideas – are they mine? Were they his? I still don't know where I begin, Isabela – how much of what is left is still him, how much is the real me.” He looked up at her. “How do I start filling this hole, Isabela? I feel like I've been shattered and then hastily shoved back together again, but some of the pieces are missing. How do I fix this?”

She crouched down in front of the mage and gently brushed errant strands of hair out of his eyes.

“You start by living, Blondie, same as all of us do,” she shrugged with a faint smile. “You pick yourself up, you go on as before, and somewhere along the way things start making sense again.”

“Just like that, huh?” laughed Anders sadly.

“Just like that, sweet thing,” agreed Isabela. “And if you're lucky, maybe you find a pretty face to help fill a few of those holes until you don't notice them aching quite so much. Or a few pretty faces.” She winked with a grin, and was rewarded with a rueful smile.

“You're a good friend, Isabela,” said Anders quietly.

“Oh hush, not so loud – I have a reputation to maintain,” she mock-scolded.

“It can go party with my old reputation then – it always had far more fun than I did,” mused Anders.

“Maybe it's time to make a new one then,” suggested Isabela, giving him a wicked and suggestive grin as she slid closer, nuzzling one shapely knee between his thighs. “Or have fun with the old one again. Without Justice in there, maybe the old Anders can come back out and play. I liked him; he knew how to have a good time. He knew the cutest little trick with lightning....”

Anders shook his head but smiled. “Even without Justice, I've changed, but you never do, Isabela,” he chuckled.

She leaned in closer and smiled invitingly. “I might surprise you,” she suggested coyly. “Only one way to find out.” She slipped a hand under the cloak and pressed her palm against the warm bare skin of his chest, sliding it down his torso then over his abdomen before palming him through the rough fabric of his pants.

Anders sighed regretfully. “But not here and now, Isabela,” he said gently. “It's... not a good time.”

“Don't tell me you've taken up monogamy?” Isabela pouted. “I guess Justice must have left a deeper mark on you than I thought.”

“No, I... “ Anders sighed. “I'm just not ready for anything like that just yet, Isabela. I just want to get back to Kirkwall, have a bath and a decent meal, and sleep in a real bed instead of camp rations and a bedroll on the ground.”

Isabela straightened up and rose to her feet before offering the mage a hand. Anders accepted it gratefully and let her haul him to his feet. She turned to go but he stayed her with a hand upon her shoulder.

“Isabela... thank you,” he said quietly.

Her teeth flashed white against her dusky skin as she grinned back at him. “Any time, sweet thing.”

They made their way back towards the clearing. Hawke looked around as they emerged from beneath the eaves of the trees; Fenris was staring at them, his emerald gaze piercing yet unreadable. Of the werewolves there was no sign.

“Oh good, you found him, Isabela,” remarked Hawke.

“I wasn't exactly hiding,” said Anders. Fenris snorted. Anders raised an eyebrow at him inquiringly, then blinked as the elf abruptly turned away. Anders' lips parted as if to speak, but then he shrugged and made his way over to stand next to Varric and Hawke.

“Everyone ready?” asked Hawke. “If we make a start now, we should make it back to the smuggler's tunnels before sundown tomorow.”

Anders glanced around.

“The werewolves didn't hang about to say goodbye, Blondie,” Varric explained. “They wanted to get on the move.”

“But I thought that with Kuriel dead, that would be the end of their troubles with the Dalish?” remarked Isabela.

“You'd think so,” replied Hawke. “The werewolves prefer not to test that theory too much however.”

“There is little enough prey on Sundermount for the Dalish,” explained Fenris in a quiet rumble. “The werewolves and Dalish hunters would come into conflict sooner or later over food. Better that they move on before there is further cause for bloodshed.” He hefted a small pack onto his shoulder. “They were good enough to leave us food and furs – enough to get us back to the city.” He turned and made his way towards the edge of the clearing, taking up point.

Anders fell into step beside Hawke who passed him a small pack of his own. He stared at the elf's back. “What did I do?” he asked in a low voice.

Hawke shrugged. “Don't worry about it,” he suggested. “Give him space and time.”

Anders sighed, then nodded.

Whatever it was, he was sure it could wait until after he'd had a hot meal and slept in a proper bed.


	24. Chapter 24

The white wolf padded ghostlike through the woods. He had left the others far behind in his ranging; he knew they would be settled down in camp for the night by now, but he was too restless. The urge to hunt was upon him. He would not settle for cold camp rations around a meagre fire; and he did not think he could face the silent questioning looks sent his way by his companions. Least of all the lost, hurt look in Anders' soft amber-brown eyes.

He could not explain to the mage how it had felt to scent him so frail and mortal as he stepped out from the eaves of the forest earlier. He had grown too used to the scent of wolf about the apostate, and now it was gone the lack disturbed him. He smelt no different than any other two-legged prey he had hunted along the Wounded Coast – weak, fragile, vulnerable. And that perturbed him.

He knew he should be glad that Anders was spared the curse of werewolf blood, freed from the grasp of his demon – yet he felt a sense of profound loss. For a little while he had dreamed of what it would be like to run with another of his kind. The tawny golden-brown wolf with gold eyes would have kept pace easily with him through the dark shadows of the forest; and after, sated on the blood-rich spoils of the hunt, they would have curled together in some sheltered den. No longer would he have been the lone wolf but at last there would be another who understood.

And now that was gone, taken from him before he had ever really come to understand what he had had in his grasp. That part of Anders was gone forever, along with Justice. And the human would never fully understand what had been taken from them both.

The wolf's paws slowed and he came to a stop, alone in a starlit glen beside a still dark pool. He raised his muzzle to the moonless sky, and the howl that rang from his jaws was low and mournful. The cry of a wolf alone, bereft of a pack.

He approached the pool and bent to drink. The water was cold and refreshing, sweet after his long run. He lapped it quietly. His ghostly reflection stared back up at him from the inky depths.

A second reflected ghost-wolf joined the first, its yellow eyes regarding him thoughtfully. Fenris lifted his head, startled, and Cersei regarded him with a sad smile.

“I thought you gone with your pack,” he rumbled quietly as he sat beside her in human form.

“I will join them soon,” she replied. “I had hoped... you might....”

He shook his head sadly. “My path leads another way,” he replied quietly.

“You would run alone?”

“It is not my wish,” he answered simply. “But life rarely follows the paths of our dreams. And I would be with him, even without the wolf-blood.”

She nodded understanding. She held out her hand and something glinted cold and hard in the starlight.

“What...” frowned Fenris, raising his hand hesitantly. She laid the small wolf's-head pendant in his hand and he stared at it, turning it over in his palm. It was carved of black stone, set in silverite; a black wolf's head with eyes of blue sapphire – blackened and tarnished by fire.

“It is how Kuriel controlled Wenfast,” replied Cersei softly. “And it was ultimately his undoing. A spirit was bound within it. It is bound no longer.”

“It is harmless?” Fenris asked; she nodded. “Why give this to me?” he asked.

“To remind you,” she answered as she rose to her feet.

“Of what?” he asked, rising also.

She simply smiled. “You will know when you remember. Give it to your mage.”

“To Anders? But why?”

Cersei merely smiled; then her form shimmered and the silver wolf loped off into the darkness.

Fenris was alone.

 

 

~ o 0 o ~

 

Anders glanced up from the small campfire as Fenris slipped back into the camp and silently sat down on a log across the fire from the mage, dropping a brace of rabbits at his feet. The elf pulled something out from beneath his tunic and threw it across the flames; Anders caught it on reflex then stared down at the scorched and blackened amulet.

“What's this?” he asked.

“Call it a gift,” replied Fenris. Anders turned it over in his hands, rubbing at the soot that smeared the silverite.

“Where'd you find that piece of junk?” snorted Hawke, ignoring the glare Fenris shot in his direction.

“It's no worse than all those pairs of torn trousers you keep insisting on hauling back to flog after every trip of ours,” Anders remarked to the rogue.

“He has a point, Hawke,” agreed Isabela. “That little trinket looks like it could clean up to be quite pretty.”

Anders glanced up at the elf with a shy smile. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Fenris merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, but his lips twisted in a faint answering smile as he reached down for a rabbit, pulling out a knife and starting to skin it.

They ate in companionable silence, dining on the rabbits roasted over the fire – tastier fare than the dried trail rations they had been prepared for. Anders picked over the remains of his half a rabbit, sucking the last scraps of meat from the slender bones before licking his fingers clean.

“I always thought there was more of the cat about you than dog, Anders; it's nice to have the real you back again,” smiled Isabela.

“It's nice to _be_ me again,” replied Anders; but even as he spoke, he could not help but note the wistful look that crossed Fenris' face. It was gone so fast he almost wondered as if he had imagined it.

“What's the first thing you're going to do when we get back to Kirkwall, now you're no longer carrying a passenger Blondie?” asked Varric.

Anders leaned back against the tree trunk and pondered. “Get drunk,” he said with a slow smile. “Justice would never let me drink. He didn't approve of alcohol.”

“Justice didn't approve of a lot of things,” remarked Hawke. “What about the mage underground? And your clinic?”

“I'll keep running the clinic,” said Anders. “That's a given. Too many people need it; I can't just turn away from them. As for the mage underground....” He frowned as he threw a handful of rabbit bones into the fire. “I need to think. I still believe there's a very real need for it, and that something has to be done about Meredith and her hold on the city. But I no longer think Justice's approach was the right one. And parts of it... he – no, _I_ came so close to – Maker, I nearly....” His voice tailed off as his face went ashen.

“What? What did you nearly do?” asked Hawke, his eyes narrowing.

“Maker, if you had known....” Anders lifted a trembling hand to his face. “Let's just say that I came very close to making a very, very bad mistake.” He shuddered. “I....” He hunched in upon himself.

“Whatever it was, it's past now,” said Hawke. “You didn't do – whatever it was you were going to do – and it's all going to be OK now. Justice is gone, and you can get on with living life as Anders, instead of just existing as Justice's vessel.”

Anders nodded, though he did not lift his head.

“I have one last bottle of Aggregio Pavali left back in my mansion. I would be honoured if you would come share it with me and celebrate your newfound freedom,” rumbled Fenris. Anders lifted his head slowly.

“Am I forgiven then?” he half-whispered.

“For what?” asked Fenris, frowning slightly.

“I don't know,” confessed Anders. “I thought....” He dropped his gaze. “Nothing.”

Fenris' frown deepened slightly, but he shrugged. “You have done nothing that requires my forgiveness, but if it means so much to you, you have it,” he said, shifting his weight upon the log.

Varric looked from the elf to the mage, then back again. “Boy, you two sure know how to muddy the waters between you, don't you?” he observed.

“I do not recall inviting your opinion, dwarf,” stated Fenris disdainfully.

“Easy now,” said Hawke soothingly. “It's late; we should get some rest. I'll take first watch; Fenris, you take second. Varric takes third.”

“What about me?” asked Anders.

“You get some rest,” said Hawke. “I don't want to see you shift from your furs till morning, am I clear?”

“Crystal,” replied the mage as he shook out his sleeping furs and bundled himself up with the small rough leather pack for a pillow.

Sleep did not come easily however. He lay staring into the dying embers of the fire as Fenris, Varric and Isabela rolled up in their furs and the camp grew quiet. The sounds of the night forest filled the air, disturbed only by the occasional creak of Hawke's armour as he shifted his balance, punctuated by soft footfalls as the rogue prowled the perimeter of their camp. Anders lay still, only his eyes betraying his restless wakefulness.

He drifted into uneasy dreams not long after Varric took over the watch. He seemed to be hunting something through the dark green shadows of a forest, but he had forgotten what it was he was hunting, and the air was thick and heavy; in the dream, it seemed as though he were wading through treacle, every step an effort. He drifted awake again as Fenris took over for the last watch of the night; the fire was little more than faintly glowing ashes and the night was dark with only starlight to shed a faint silvery illumination over the sleepers.

Anders became aware of Fenris' green gaze upon him from across the dying fire.

“You are restless,” remarked the elf quietly, his voice pitched low so as to not disturb their companions.

“Can't sleep,” confessed Anders.

“You are apprehensive of what lies ahead of you in Kirkwall,” guessed Fenris. Anders pushed himself up onto one elbow and nodded.

“So much of what I was doing was driven by Justice; looking back on it now, I can see so much that was misguided and wrong. His basic aims and intentions were good, but he was blinded by his lack of understanding. Justice was black and white, but people are shades of grey – and Justice could never understand that.”

“Will you go on with your role in the mage underground?” asked Fenris.

Anders nodded. “I think so,” he agreed. “Meredith is insane. She makes more mages Tranquil on a near-daily basis – even experienced older mages past their Harrowing. Elthina won't intervene; she condones the abuses by saying nothing, allowing Meredith to rule unopposed. If we can't put a stop to it directly, then we have to try and get those most at risk out to safety. I'm needed. I can't turn my back on them.”

“And your manifesto?” asked Fenris, shifting closer.

Anders groaned as he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I don't know. I need to read through it again, see if any of it even makes sense. I don't know, maybe I was going about it the wrong way.”

“Maybe you should not throw yourself straight into everything straight away,” suggested Fenris. “The mage underground and your manifesto can wait a little while, surely?”

“What do you mean?” asked Anders, letting his hands fall to his lap as he regarded the elf with tired eyes.

“The Anders who will return to Kirkwall tomorrow is not the Anders who left. Perhaps you should take some time to get to know this new Anders and discover what he truly wishes for himself, instead of trying to take up the yoke Justice laid on him once more?”

“It was no yoke!” objected Anders. “The plight of the mages -”

“- Was Justice's cause. Would you have taken it up if you had never met Justice? Would you still have come to Kirkwall.”

“Yes,” said Anders firmly. “Karl – he, he needed me, I had to... had to come, to try-”

“And would you have stayed after he died?” asked Fenris gently, leaning forward.

“Yes. No. I don't know,” replied Anders bleakly. “Karl died at my hands, did Hawke ever tell you that? They made him Tranquil – to punish _me_. He... he was my first. The first man I loved. The Circle took him away from me – not once, but twice; they moved him, and then they made him Tranquil, destroyed everything that made him Karl, th-they -” He broke off as Fenris laid a hand over his own, his skin warm against his cold fingers. Anders had not realised he was crying until Fenris lifted his other hand and gently wiped a tear from his cheek with his thumb.

“I did not know,” said Fenris quietly. “Would you have stayed?”

“I don't know,” replied Anders. “With Karl gone, I had no real reason to stay in Kirkwall. Maybe I would have tagged along with Hawke anyway. I didn't really have anywhere else to go.”

“Will you stay now?” asked Fenris. Anders opened his mouth to answer but then paused as he lifted his eyes to Fenris' face and something there stilled him. He stared at the elf for a moment.

“What are you asking me, Fenris?” he asked in a half-whisper.

“To stay,” replied Fenris simply. “Don't run. Don't throw yourself back into Justice's cause. Just... stay. With me.”

“With... you?”

“For a little while,” suggested Fenris. “Whilst you figure out who Anders is and what Anders wishes to do. Perhaps we could figure it out together.” He stroked the backs of his fingers gently down the side of Anders' face, smiling sadly. “We cannot run together through the forest as wolves as I had dreamed, _mi amata_ , but perhaps we can find a new path together – if you would have me?”

Anders stared at the elf for long moments in silence until Fenris grew discomforted. “Have I erred?” he finally asked quietly. “I was mistaken, you do not feel-”

“Yes,” whispered Anders.

Fenris blinked. “Yes?” he echoed hesitantly.

“Yes,” nodded Anders. “I will go with you. For a little while, at least, while I find my way and who I really am again. I can't promise you forever, but... yes.”

Amber eyes stared into emerald green as Fenris cradled Anders' pale face between his warm brown palms. As the first light of dawn painted a soft golden glow across the mage's countenance, the elf leaned forward and claimed the pale pink lips with a kiss.

Who knew what the morrow would bring? For now, this moment was theirs.

 

 

_~ Fin.~_


End file.
